


Cell Mate

by pucktheplayer



Category: Glee
Genre: Alternate Universe - Prison, Angst, Child Abuse, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gay Sex, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Novel, Parent/Child Incest, Prison, Prison Sex, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-29
Updated: 2015-07-29
Packaged: 2018-04-11 22:54:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 20
Words: 133,235
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4455629
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pucktheplayer/pseuds/pucktheplayer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prison orange is so not Kurt's color, but unfortunately that is the least of his troubles when he finds himself in a place where dropping the soap is more than just an annoyance in the shower. With no street skills and sparkly pink toenails, things aren't looking up for Kurt--especially when he's assigned to the cell of the terrifying bully who landed him in jail to begin with. But there are a lot of things for Kurt to learn about Dave Karofsky (including the fact that he knows damn well how to make you le'go his Eggo) and a lot of things for Dave to learn about Kurt Hummel (including the fact that he knows damn well how to help heal a heart.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Right to Remain Violent

**Author's Note:**

> **If you are seeing this note, it means that this fanfic was originally posted on[Puck the Player's Livejournal](http://pucktheplayer.livejournal.com) and has been reposted to AO3. None of my fanfic will be deleted from my old Livejournal, but I am moving my primary presence here.**  
>   
> 
>  **About the Fic:** Cell Mate was originally written and posted on my Livejournal and Fanfiction.Net between December of 2010 and September of 2012. It is completed and can still be found on both of the websites where it was originally published. I am known as the angst queen in certain circles, but I guarantee my fic comes with a happy ending, and Cell Mate is no exception. There will be lots of tears, but it will end in smiles. This was originally written to be a prison!fic, but ended up being much more than that, as it details Dave's emotional journey toward acceptance long after he and Kurt make it out of the big house--but there's still some jailhouse rocking in there! Please enjoy, and thank you to all who followed me on my journey writing this fanfic. If you are just reading this fic and you like it, please click the kudo button 'cause it makes my heart all drippy and warm. ;)
> 
>  **WARNINGS:** Please note that this fanfic includes GRAPHIC depictions of **violent rape, incest, child prostitution,** and **pedophilia** , mostly in flashback form. It contains **non-consensual sex** and a lot of pain and angst. It is, however, ultimately HURT/COMFORT, and it has a HAPPY ENDING. It does _not_ encourage or applaud abuse in any form--it acknowledges what a terrible thing it is--but please be forewarned that if you have ANY problem dealing with graphic descriptions of very sad and terrible things happening to a child by the hand of their father, this may not be the story for you.

It had taken Dave years to perfect the image of his father’s dangerous grin, but the effort had definitely served him well. The moment he had flashed his pearly whites, all the part time do-gooders on the team had punched out early and fled to their other jobs as mindless followers of the mocking masses.

Justin Bieber on steroids had retreated to the back of the locker room where he was shuffling through a pile of dirty socks with headphones stuffed in his ears, like he couldn’t quite hear what was going on—despite the fact that the cord was dangling down at his side, connected to nothing. Puckerman was busily admiring his own arm muscles, muttering the occasional compliment to them like they were thinking persons. Even roller boy had turned his wheels in the other direction as he awkwardly tried to lift himself up enough to slip on his cup.

But hey, everybody in McKinley High was well aware that being the bully—or even the oblivious onlooker—was a lot easier job than than being the good samaritan. And while it might not be the best investment in the long run, it paid a hell of a lot better until they started counting up the karma.

Hudson’s face was almost as red as the pair of Spiderman boxers he was wearing as he stood before them, his back against the lockers, hands placed awkwardly over his crotch. It didn’t do much to hide the wet spot.

Dave let out another loud laugh and then began to sing in a mocking, high pitched voice. “I jizz right in my pants, every time you’re next to me! And when we’re holdin’ hands, it’s like havin’ sex to me! You say I’m premature, I just call it ecstasy! I wear a rubber at all times, it’s a necessity! ‘Cause I JIZZ IN MY PANTS!”

The howls of laughter made the locker room sound like a cross between a monkey habitat and an execution chamber, with a little locker banging and foot stamping on the side.

“Whaddya think, Hudson?” he questioned, flipping a limp wrist in his direction. “Should I sign up for the Gleek squad? I got your theme song down pat, I think.”

He smirked as Hudson tried, unsuccessfully, to clench his fists in a threatening way while still covering the cum spot on his shorts. “You need to start wearing one of those tampony maxi lady pad things in your panties, bro! No wonder you can’t get girls to put out. You’re finished before the checkout girl gets around to scannin’ your Trojans!”

“Go to hell, Karofsky!” Hudson snapped back, yanking open his locker and pulling out some sort of baggie. He tore it open and began to wipe himself with… what the hell *was* that?

“Shit, Hudson. When did you start keeping baby wipes with your jock strap?” Dave flashed his Danger Grin again. “Oh, I get it! You shit your pretty little pants every time you see me cruising down the hall.”

More laughter from his loyal followers. The Beach Boy hunched his shoulders down and Puck let his arms go, beginning a conversation with his dick instead. The cripple’s face had turned an interesting shade of red and he looked pretty pissed, but he definitely wasn’t about to burst into an impromptu song anytime soon.

Dave didn’t have much to thank his dad for, but the Smile of Pain was golden.

“They’re mmmst toiletsss,” Finn mumbled, eyes focused on wiping himself off.

Dave raised an eyebrow, shooting Azimio a disbelieving look. His buddy responded with a shrug of the shoulders, ‘what the fuck?’ painted on his face.

“They’re toilets? Day-am, Hudson. Haven’t you been house trained yet?”

Hudson’s head jerked up as he glared furiously at Dave. “They’re moist towelettes, okay?! It’s just a moist towelette!”

Dave raised an eyebrow, snorting loudly. “Dude, are you speakin’ English?”

Azimio laughed. “Nah, he ain’t speakin’ no English, Dave. That’s Faggot he’s talkin’ right there. I seen the bow tie fairy wipin’ off his lip-uh-stick with those things. I know ‘cause I grabbed it and shoved it up his nose.” He sneered. “Fucking queer.” He reached out, shoving at Hudson. “You better watch out, boy. The last thing we be needing is another faggot at this school.”

Dave’s pulse quickened, but he quickly wrenched the flash of nervousness into a bubbling anger.

Azimio was right. And it wasn’t his problem because he wasn’t a damn faggot. It was all that little princess’ doing. He took a sharp breath as he clenched and unclenched his fists, a rush of fury pounding through him as that pretty face flashed through his mind.

Damn that prancing, whoring queer, always off flaunting himself, like anybody wanted to see that sick shit. Always fucking with Dave’s head. Making him out to be a queer with his fucking kiss. The little slut.

“Yeah,” he practically growled. “I think you’re right, man. I think going home with homo has turned our boy into a cock sucker. Probably spends his evenings giving Hummel hummers!”

“Shut your worthless mouth, Karofsky!” Hudson snapped, suddenly pushing away from the lockers and slamming hard into Dave, trying unsuccessfully to shove the bigger boy back. Hudson glared at him, face practically touching his.

Dave’s pulse rose, his breath coming hard as he stared at his teammate. Fuck Hudson. Fuck Hummel. Fuck everyone! Everyone who never wanted you, who just fucked you up and then fucked you over. And here was Hudson, ganging up with that pretty bitch, encouraging him to spread his homo-ness all over the place, infecting everything. Like a damn disease.

Dave sucked in a furious breath as he remember the feel of his lips, hard against Hummel’s. How he’d grabbed at him. And how Hummel had shoved him away, looking at Dave like *he* was the sick one, like *he* was the nasty freak!

God, he wanted to release The Fury in Hudson’s smug face right now.

“Aw, come on, Hudson,” Azimio spoke up, his voice taunting. “You have to admit something is queer about this—and please do not excuse my pun! You’re a cool jock with a hot chick, then you go and join the Happy Club and suddenly we be seeing you in a rubber dress doin’ a Beyonce dance? What the fuck, man? Tell me how that’s not homo!”

“Yeah,” Dave cut in, forcing down the knives of fear as his best buddy spit in Hudson’s direction. He had nothing to worry about because he wasn’t a queer, wasn’t ever a queer, and wasn’t ever gonna be a queer. Fucking nasty freaks. “Azimio’s right. I think the lady boy’s been slipping some rainbows in your juice box, homo!”

Their audience of second string players burst into laughter once more, and even Puckerman gave that one a chuckle.

Without warning Hudson threw his entire body at Dave, actually managing to slam him hard into the wall of lockers behind him, slapping a hand down next to his head as he leaned in with a furious look on his face.

“Maybe you should stop ragging on Kurt, Karofsky! It seems like you think about him an *awful* lot. Almost obsessive. A little too interested, maybe? People might start calling you Cleopatra. You know, *the Queen of Denial*?!”

Everything froze. Dave's breath caught and suddenly it was like all the air in the room had been sucked away. No. No. NO. Nonononono. He hadn’t… No. He couldn’t… No. Dave stared into Hudson’s angry face, unable to move, to speak, to fucking *breathe.* Oh, God.

Hudson knew. Wait. No, he couldn’t know. But he had to know! He had to know! But how did he know? How did he *know*?

It was like Dave had been shoved back in time, like hands were once more wrapped around his neck, choking, choking, so big, so strong, and he was just so small. Couldn’t breathe. Why couldn’t he breathe? Because he knew. How did he know?!

There was only one answer. The faggot had told him. The flaunting, whoring faggot had told him! No. NO! He had to do something. He wasn’t a queer! He would never be a queer! He never wanted it before and he didn’t want it now and he never would want it ever! 

Fuck Kurt Hummel and his sick, twisted, disgusting, manipulative *faggotness*! He should have tossed the fancy little boy in the Dumpster for *good* the first time he saw that pretty face! The first time he *noticed* that… that… flaunting homo with his prancy walk and his faggy clothes! He should have beat his head in and left him behind the McDonald’s. Then this *never* would have happened. No one would ever think he was a queer!

But now… oh God, they’d all know. They’d know and they’d ditch him. Everything he’d worked so hard for, the rep he’d built, the friends he’d made… gone. All because of the queer. They’d all ditch him just like everybody had always ditched him. He’d be alone. The loser. The trash.

God, why couldn’t he breathe?!

Thrown out like trash again. Sweat poured down his face as the pain pounded through his heart, harder than any fist. He couldn’t lose any more. He couldn’t. He couldn’t take it. He—NO! 

Fuck the pain! Never give into the pain! Use the pain! Make it something else. Use it to protect. Use it against the ones who hurt you. Let them get what was coming to them.

The air was back in a sudden rush and he could move again, his fists clenching. And Finn Hudson was still there, right there in his face. Hadn’t eternity passed? Why the fuck was he still there, staring at him? Threatening everything he had... Staring at him like he was a faggot, a homo, a queer… Pain. No, anger. Fury. Use it. Channel it…

Fuck them all. He wouldn’t let this bastard hurt him.

Dave raised his fist. He’d show Hudson and everyone in that room that Dave Karofsky wasn’t no faggot. He was a *man.*

 

* * *

 

Hurt. Face and body. Hurt.

That was his first thought as he awoke, followed quickly by…

Danger!

Dave shot up, not even wincing as his vision tilted madly and his ribs screamed at him for mercy. Fuck that. Embrace the pain. He had no mercy.

He looked back and forth rapidly, trying to focus, to hone in on where he was, but his head was spinning madly and he could taste the bile rising in the back of his throat from the pain. He swallowed it down, clenching his jaw. Had to focus. There was hurt. There was pain. Where there was pain, there was Danger.

What had happened? Where was he? Had to focus, had to find the Danger.

“Dave, please lie back down.” The voice was feminine and soft, like a bed with a blanket after sleeping for a week in a parking lot. Gentle.

Dave didn’t relax. Gentle voices could be Dangerous, sometimes the most Dangerous of all. Danger often spoke pretty words, promised pretty things, and even sometimes wore pretty clothes—but it would betray you in the end.

Wait… his brow furrowed slightly. Wore pretty clothes?

An image flashed through his mind. A boy, so pretty. Feathers on his hat. A locker room. A kiss.

Danger!

Dave blinked and tried to speak, then stopped, licking his lips as he tasted vomit and blood.

“Here, drink this, Dave,” the gentle voice said and Dave forced himself to focus on the figure beside him. She was old, greying hair, and was dressed in colorful scrubs. He knew her. He had seen her, knew her. The nurse. From school. He was in the nurse’s office.

Safe. He would be safe there.

His whole body relaxed, all the tension and adrenaline released in a rush.

“Dave, drink the water.”

The water. Dave stared down at the cup dully. Shouldn’t drink things that people gave you. That was Dangerous. But the nurse… Mrs. Mitchell. She had always been nice to him. She would give him aspirin when he came to school and it hurt too bad to play normal. And she had always accepted it when he told her how clumsy he was. How he ran into a door. How he spilt scalding coffee all over his hands. How he fell into the neighbor’s rose bush.

She had just shaken her head and squeezed his hand and let him put his letterman jacket back on to cover the bruises. She wasn’t Dangerous.

He took the cup from her small hand and sipped the water, rolling the cool liquid around on his tongue. After a few swallows he was able to speak in a hoarse voice.

“Whu… what happened?”

Her brow wrinkled even more than it already was and she looked at him with concern. “You don’t remember?”

Dave frowned, licking his lips nervously as he tried to focus. His head was still spinning a little and when he furrowed his brow there was a sharp flash of pain, on top of the continuous throbbing. He carefully raised a hand to inspect the damage, fingertips trailing lightly across swollen skin.

Forehead gash. A black eye. A bruised jaw. A split lip. A broken nose? He pressed his fingers against it, then winced. Yeah, a broken nose. He rolled his jaw, grimacing. And a loose tooth in the back of his mouth.

Nothing that he hadn’t seen before. And for once ‘I got in a fight’ would be true. Or so he assumed. It was all kind of fuzzy…

“I…” He had been in the locker room, with the football team. Coach Beiste had gone to yell at Coach Sylvester about something… confetti all over the playing field? Yeah… They’d been hanging out, talking about chicks.

Dave had been conning the guys into thinking he was a big playboy by using all the knowledge he’d picked up from his ‘foster homies,’ as he jokingly called the gangbanger type boys he knew from juvie who had been getting blow jobs on the playground at twelve.

Hudson had walked in, all hot and bothered from dry humping Barbara Streisand, started to dress for practice, then had heard the words ‘that ho sucked it all down’ and cum right in his pants. Dave had started making fun of him and then—

Oh, shit. Dave’s breath caught and his shoulders tensed, causing Mrs. Mitchell to frown at him worriedly.

“David?”

Hudson knew. He had to, the way he was talking, and looking at Dave like he was some homo. The faggot had told him. Hudson had gotten up in Dave’s face and then…

“I-I don’t remember. I was pissed at Hudson, then… I can’t remember.”

Mrs. Mitchell leaned against the exam table, a sad look on her face. “You attacked him, Dave.”

“Okay… Been there, done that. How did I end up looking like I went through a meat processor?”

She smiled sadly and a nervous lump grew in his throat. The way she was looking at him…

“You did more than attack him, Dave. You nearly killed him.” She reached out, gently touching his left hand, and Dave jerked, wincing as his wrist caught on metal. Oh, God. How could he not have noticed? He was getting soft. He’d let the pain distract him and he hadn’t even noticed…

He raised his wrist, slowly this time, following the chain on the handcuff to where it was attached to the metal table. His gorge rose and he swallowed down the sick feeling in his stomach, doing everything he could to fight off the panic.

He was in the nurse’s office. He was safe. Mrs. Mitchell wasn’t Dangerous. No one was going to hurt him. He took a sharp breath, face twisting into something between a look of fury and terror as he was unable to completely silence the screaming in his head. He hated being tied down. Or being in small spaces. Anything where he couldn’t escape.

He reined his face back into an emotionless expression, forcing the fear into submission. If he let it rule then panic would become hysteria and that was just a road to hell.

“What did I do?” he asked flatly. It didn’t really matter. If it was bad enough that they’d cuffed him in the nurse’s office instead of taking him to the hospital, it meant he had started it and he was going to be the one going down. It was back to the slammer for him—and this time it wouldn’t be a summer visit. He’d flunk out of high school and become another sob story of the system.

A flash of anger made his lip curl. He’d been so damn close. He’d just wanted to get out of that damn school with that stupid diploma in his hand. Get a job working construction or on cars or *something* that would make him more cash than standing behind a counter at McD’s—aw hell, who was he kidding? These days, there weren’t even any shit jobs like that. 

But he'd been so close... So close to getting away from that alcoholic bastard and all the group homes and his self righteous social worker. Now he’d be a drop out with no job and, with his luck, they’d charge him as an adult this time, so he’d have a record, too, if he even made it out of the pen. He’d just be another stupid, worthless, punk. All his hopes were gone and he probably *would* be cleaning Kurt Hummel’s fucking septic tank! It was all over and it was all because of that fucking faggot!

A sudden urge to cry came over him and he beat it down brutally, slamming his free fist onto the plushy mat as he bent forward, head bowed, gritting his teeth. Soft fingers brushed his face and he flinched, eyes flickering over to Mrs. Mitchell, who smiled gently at him.

She was so nice. She had given him candy bars before. And once she’d bought him some polo shirts when she noticed that he wore the same three t-shirts over and over again. It had been nice that she noticed. No one else did. Well, except Hummel, but he had just called him fashionless or something.

God, he must be having a break down because he couldn’t even work up the energy to be pissed about that.

“Dave, you have to stop this,” Mrs. Mitchell said, tilting his chin up with her finger. He let her do it. He didn’t usually let people touch him, but she was nice. “You have to stop hurting people. You’re just hurting yourself.”

Dave let out a dull laugh. “What does it matter now? You said I almost killed him.” He lifted his left hand, dark amusement crossing his face. “I think I’m under arrest.”

“It’s… a peculiar situation, actually, Dave. You did hurt Mr. Hudson. You choked him until he passed out. But Mr. Puckerman managed to pull him off of you—then the two of you got into quite a fight. You wrestled your way into the hall and knocked over a trophy case, actually. Mr. Puckerman hit you in the face with a trophy, knocking you unconscious.” She reached up, gently brushing his forehead, an annoyed look on her face. “I tried to get them to take you to the hospital, but your social worker had other ideas.”

“She’s a bitch,” he said flatly. “So Puckerman hit me in the face. He break my nose?”

“Actually, Mr. Hummel broke your nose.”

Dave’s eyebrows shot up, then he winced at the sudden pain. “The queer broke my nose?”

Mrs. Mitchell frowned deeply. “Please refrain from calling him that, David. And yes, he did.”

“Wow, I almost have some respect for him now.”

The nurse shook her head, looking annoyed. “Stop that.”

Dave shrugged. “Sorry. How the hell did Fancy break my nose? Hit me with a platform shoe?”

“From what I understand, Mr. Hummel came running when he heard of the fight, saw Mr. Hudson lying in the locker room and went a little mad. He took a textbook from one of the students watching and, just as you were waking up, hit you in the face with it. Over twenty times.”

“Shit,” Dave mumbled. “No wonder my face hurts. So explain to me again why I’m sitting in the nurse’s office and not down at county?”

Mrs. Mitchell sighed. “Well, the whole incident has been… problematic. Though Mr. Puckerman did the right thing, pulling you away from Mr. Hudson, continuing the fight was in violation of his probation. And though Mr. Hummel’s attack was certainly provoked when he saw Mr. Hudson’s condition, you were unconscious on the floor when he attacked you with the textbook and, therefore, it is considered assault, not self-defense.

"Right now they are both in the principal’s office with their parents and the police officers. I think they are trying to come to some agreement that will not lead to criminal charges. They have been speaking to a Juvenile and Family Court judge, trying to come up with a solution to this.”

Dave sat stiffly, his face carefully blank. “Our parents are here? Did… did my, ah, dad come?”

Mrs. Mitchell reached out, rubbing his back in little circles. “No, Dave,” she said quietly. “I believe your social worker has come in his place.”

He let out a breath he hadn’t realized he had been holding, tense shoulders relaxing. Thank God. Hell, he’d rather go to juvie than go home with his Pops after having his soap operas interrupted.

Mrs. Mitchell gave him a soft smile. “Do you think that you can walk okay, Dave?”

He let out a little laugh, not really giving a damn if it sounded bitter. He was tired and he hurt. Pompous asshole jock was too much to pull off right now. “I’ve managed before. You know I’m a clumsy bastard.”

The woman shook her head, looking sad. She really was a nice lady. He was an asshole and a bully. Why the hell should she be sad when he got what was coming to him?

“Come on then, Dave. I’ll get the officer to un-cuff you and we’ll get you to Principal Figgins’ office so that you can have a chance to speak in your own defense.”

Yeah. Cause he was so good at that. A fist to the face he could handle. Talking pretty? Save that shit for Fancy. The truth? He wasn’t extraordinarily ordinary. He was just a freaking loser. He snorted.

"Lockdown, here I come."


	2. The Tell-Tale Scarf

The scarf was a lost cause.

Kurt stared down dully at the frayed satin, too numb to even really care. It was really pretty, with a pink and violet pattern crisscrossing it, so he really *should* care. It had been a birthday present from Mercedes.

But he couldn’t care. Because to care you had to think, and right now it seemed like he couldn’t think at all. Everything was numb. It was as if the whole world was moving slowly through a vat of Mr. Schue’s hair product, the movements lethargic and deliberate.

He swallowed hard and tried to focus, eyes lifting to study his father, who was making harsh, angry movements and had deep, furious sounds coming from his mouth. Sounds that Kurt couldn’t understand because it was all so slow.

Why was everything moving so slowly? His heart was beating frantically, yet so, so slowly, like a fist pounding away at a stop and go pace.

He tried to look around, to understand what was going on, because it was important. He knew it was important. But he couldn’t really remember why.

He stared down at his hands. They were clean and white. Where was the blood? He was sure he’d had blood on his hands. Even his fingernails were clean, but there should be blood. Not his own blood. Someone else’s blood. Dave Karofsky’s blood.

Kurt choked a little

Oh, God, what would happen to him? Would he go to jail? He couldn’t go to jail. Bright orange looked horrendous on him. Bright orange looked horrendous on *everyone*! In fact, that was probably just another way to torment criminals, forcing them to wear the most unflattering color in the universe. Construction workers wore orange. Garbage men wore orange. *Traffic cones* wore orange. Oh, God, they were going to dress him up like a traffic cone…

He shuddered and suddenly everything around him sped up. The police officer in the corner yawned, shifting around and looking bored as his father shouted at the speakerphone perched on the edge of Principal Figgins’ desk, his fist waving in the air.

“My son has no record whatsoever! He has *never* acted out violently before, despite the fact that he has been relentlessly bullied at this school! By this very boy, even! Dave Karofsky has a history of violent behavior and has *threatened* the *life* of my son before!”

Yeah, but Karofsky had never hit him in the face with a textbook over and over and over until the blood was pooling on the floor, and his face was swelling up, and the shouts of protests had been reduced to soft grunts.

Kurt tried his best to push away the sickness rising in his gut as he remembered the feeling, that powerful feeling, that had come over him as he had put Karofsky in his place. It had been like a shining warmth in his chest, melting away all the frustration, all the fear, all the anxiety that had been building up for months. A simple, straightforward act of defiance. He couldn’t fix Karofsky’s messed up mind, but he could break his face.

Kurt pressed a hand over his mouth, fighting back the urge to throw up. What had happened to him?! How could he have done this?!

“Mr. Hummel, while I do understand your stance, your son did commit an act of assault.”

Act of assault. That sounded so nice. Neat, really. Much better than ‘beat another kid’s face in, leaving him broken and passed out in the hall, lying in his own blood.’ Kurt shivered, then wrapped his arms around himself, trying to get warm. A nice effort but a futile gesture, really, since Kurt was pretty sure it wasn’t the air conditioner that was chilling him.

“Are you honestly saying that you are going to hand out the same damn punishment to a sweet kid who likes to have tea parties and go to the opera as you would to a kid who beats the shit out of people for fun?!”

Kurt squeezed his eyes shut as fear shot through him. What had happened to that sweet kid? Was that really even him anymore? Surely that boy would never have attacked Karofsky. That was *not* the kind of person he was. If he was really that sweet kid, how could he have hit him, over and over again, drunk with the feeling of finally, *finally* having some *power*?

How could he have slammed that book into Karofsky’s drowsy, confused face even as Mercedes begged for him to stop, grabbing at his arms as he struck again and again, and as the blood sprayed from Karofsky’s nose? And most importantly, how could it have felt so *good*?

Kurt stared down at his very clean hands and once again swallowed down the need to vomit. There was something wrong with him. This wasn’t right.

“My son walked into that locker room and saw the boy he calls his brother lying unconscious on the floor, half way dead! He lost his head—I think that is pretty damn understandable.”

Kurt tried his best to focus on his father’s words, even as his head spun. Understandable? Was his dad out of his mind?! How in hell was it *understandable*?! There was no excuse for what he had done. Violence was never, ever, ever the answer.

He hated people who hurt others just to feel better about themselves in some twisted way. And he hadn’t just shoved Karofsky against a locker or pushed him in the hall. He had tried to beat his face in, a deep satisfaction welling up in him as all the fearful memories flashed before his eyes. As if every time he raised that book to hit him, he broke another piece of the words ‘I will kill you’.

All the pain Karofsky had caused him had turned into this big ball of wrath and suddenly it was like he was above the rules. Righteous. Like it was all justified.

And for the first time since that kiss in the locker room, Kurt had felt powerful. And it had felt so good. How could something so horrible have felt so good?

Kurt began to rub the scarf frantically against his hands again. Where was the blood? Where had it gone? How could it have just washed away? It had to be there. Surely everyone could see it. How could his father stand there, proclaiming his innocence when there was blood all over his hands?

Dammit, when had he died and come back to life in an bad parody of the Tell-Tale Heart? God, he was stuck in The Tell-Tale Scarf. Kurt blinked, not sure whether that made him want to laugh or to cry.

“Mr. Hummel,” a dry voice said over the speakerphone. “I am very sorry for all the troubles your son has gone through—the way Mr. Karofsky acted in the past is inexcusable.”

Kurt’s heart leapt in fear. If Karofsky pushing him into the lockers was inexcusable, what was beating a boy’s face in? A crime worthy of hell? What would the judge do if she could see him, blood all over his hands…

Except there wasn’t any blood on his hands. Had there even been any blood on his hands? He hadn’t actually touched Karofsky. God, he couldn’t remember. It was too much of a blur, the adrenaline pumping, the image of Finn, unconscious, and Dave Karofsky’s smug face…

Only, how could it have been smug? Karofsky had been lying on the floor. Puck… Puck had hit him with something and knocked him down. A trophy. Yeah. The trophy that Kurt and the Cheerios had won at Nationals last year.

How ironic. In a twisted kind of way it had been him hitting Karofsky then, too.

“We are very sorry for all the troubles your son has gone through, Mr. Hummel. The school should have acted long ago to halt these instances. However, we are dealing with the here and now. The DA is going to be pushing to charge all three of these boys as adults. In family court we have a lot of leniency when we judge cases, the ability to take the circumstances into account. However, criminal court is a whole different game—if juvenile is a rugby match, criminal court is a gladiator ring.”

Panic rose in Kurt’s chest. Jail. He didn’t want to go to jail. People like him didn’t belong in jail. People who robbed banks belonged in jail. People who sold drugs belonged in jail. People who beat other people to death belonged in—

Oh, God.

He swallowed hard. Karofsky wasn’t dead. They weren’t talking about him like he was dead. But he wasn’t here, either. Maybe he was dying. Maybe he was lying in a hospital bed somewhere, bleeding in the brain.

And that blood would be on Kurt’s hands.

He let out a choked sob and rubbed at his already raw palms with his scarf. Why wouldn’t they let him go wash his hands?

A look of absolute fury crossed Kurt’s dad’s face. “But my son is not violent! It’s that bullying bastard who is violent! *He’s* the one who beats people down for the fun of it! My son is a good boy!”

More tears ran down Kurt’s cheeks. His dad was wrong. He didn’t understand how it had made Kurt feel to attack the other boy. He’d never understood before today why guys like Puck and Finn shoved people around and roughed each other up. But now he knew. When you couldn’t win any other way, it made you feel *strong.* And that made Kurt feel sick.

“Mr. Hummel,” the judge said over the speaker, voice clipped. “May I be frank?”

Burt’s dad sat back, looking disgruntled. “By all means,” he snapped. “I would appreciate some straight answers.”

“Elections are coming up in a month, Mr. Hummel. And violence in schools in a very hot political issue right now. Showing how they are stepping up to the plate in dealing with school crimes could make both the mayor and the DA look very good. Prosecuting three boys involved in a fight that put another boy’s life at risk will make a beautiful headline.

"The people will never realize that your son and Mr. Puckerman did not attack Mr. Hudson, or that the fight was instigated by Mr. Karofsky. All the world cares about is the big print.” The irritation in the judge’s voice was apparent.

“However, after hearing the details of this matter, I believe that it would be best to suppress it as much as we are able by making certain that it is handled in juvenile court, rather than presented to an unsympathetic jury. I do have some sway in the system and should be able to keep the DA from jumping on this.” There was a slight pause and some murmuring in the background before the judge spoke again.

“I will set a hearing for two weeks from today at ten o’clock. Due to the extent of Mr. Karofsky’s attack, combined with his previous offenses, I feel that he should be detained until which time I can review the case and make a decision on the terms of parole. Mr. Puckerman and Mr. Hummel will also be detained, per Mr. Puckerman’s violation of parole and the vicious nature of Mr. Hummel’s attack. A psychologist will be sent to the detention center to interview Mr. Hummel and I will issue his parole based upon this evaluation.

"As the court is now officially closed for the day, I will review their case on Monday and… hm… I am free at five pm. I will make a decision on the terms of the release of the minors to their guardians at this time.”

Kurt rubbed at the tears rolling down his cheeks with his scarf, not caring that he was getting snot everywhere. He was going to jail. Would he ever get out of jail? What would happen in jail? Maybe Puck could protect him…

Kurt glanced over at the other boy, eyes widening slightly at the pale color of his skin and the panicked look on his face. He was shaking his head over and over again, looking like he was in shock or something.

He was definitely screwed.

“I… I can’t go to jail,” Kurt said dully, barely aware that the words were even coming from his mouth. It was so hard to focus with all the blood that wasn’t on his hands… “I-I can’t even go in the boy’s locker room without getting beat up. How am I supposed to go to jail?”

His father reached over, squeezing his shoulder reassuringly as he turned a furious look on the phone, raising a fist as if the judge could somehow see him. “Monday? You’ll discuss parole *Monday*? That’s almost four days! You want my son to spend for days in *prison* before you’ll even set a parole hearing?”

“He’ll be in juvenile hall, not prison, Mr. Hummel,” the judge said soothingly. “Before I release your son I need to be assured by a licensed psychologist that he is not a risk to others. Whatever his history, he brutalized another boy’s face. I do understand the circumstances, but that is the same sort of pent up rage that drives boys like Dave to act out.”

Oh, God, it *was*, wasn’t it? The pleasure he’d felt as that oversized oaf’s head had tipped black, blood running from his nose, that chubby face already beginning to swell… Oh, God. He was turning into Dave Karofsky.

Kurt sniffled. He really wished he could wash his hands.

“Boys like Dave?” Kurt’s father shot back, glaring at the phone. “Like *Dave*? Are you on a first name basis with him now, judge? Are you people allowed to be all buddy-buddy with your cases these days?”

“I have seen Mr. Karofsky in court before, Mr. Hummel. But I have taken an oath and there is no reason to recuse myself simply because I have seen a child before. If juvenile judges did that, half of our cases would never make it to court. Repeat offenders are the norm.” Kurt winced at the annoyance in the judge’s voice. “There is usually a reason why a child commits a crime and the act is often repeated. Now, the officers can escort the boys—”

“I ain’t going back to juvie!” Puck spoke up suddenly, jumping up and slapping his palm down on Figgins’ desk as if throwing a temper tantrum was actually going to *help* his cause. “I’M NOT GOIN’ BACK THERE!”

“You are in no position to argue, Mr. Puckerman,” the judge replied sternly. “I am afraid that all three of you will be spending a couple of days in juvie. I will see you all then.” The phone clicked.

Kurt whimpered and his dad looked at him in concern. “Don’t worry, Kurt,” he murmured as he knelt down next to his son, wrapping his arms around him. “We’re gonna get you a damn good lawyer, and you will be out of there faster than you can say ‘not-guilty.’ It’s all going to be okay.”

“Okay?” Kurt’s voice came out higher than usual, which was pretty high considering that he spoke like a castrati on an average day. He swallowed nervously. “How can it be okay, Dad? I-I hit him! There was blood…” He shivered and his dad tightened his arms around him, rubbing his back comfortingly.

“It’s okay, Kurt,” he said soothingly. “What you did was normal. That boy hurt your brother and has tormented you relentlessly. You acted out. That’s not unusual, Kurt. You’re not a bad person.”

Kurt sniffled, raising tear filled eyes to meet his dad’s. “Then why am I going to jail?” he questioned, barely more than a whisper. His dad’s shoulders tensed and he pulled back slightly, blinking rapidly as he stared down at his son. “Because they’re stupid, Kurt. But I swear, it will be okay.” His dad palmed a hand roughly across his face and Kurt’s breath caught when he realized that his father was crying.

They’d already lost so much. He couldn’t lose his dad.

“Dad,” he whispered, “I’m scared.” His father wrapped his arms around him again, squeezing Kurt tight.

“I know, son. I know. But just be strong and remember that I love you, Kurt, more than *anything*.”

* * *

“Dad… I’m scared.”

“I know son, I know. But just be strong and remember that I love you, Kurt, more than anything.”

Dave lumbered through the door, raising an eyebrow in a dark sort of amusement at the pretty boy and his dad’s little hug fest. Aaaaw. Daddy-son bonding. If it hadn’t sounded so kinky, it might have been sweet.

Of course, Kurt’s dad was getting a little too close for comfort, in Dave’s opinion, but Kurt seemed to like it, so whatever. Probably just another faggish thing about him, liking to be held by men. Dave’s lip curled up slightly. He couldn’t imagine why you’d ever want some guy pressed up against you like that. Of course, he wasn’t a homo.

A little sob came from Kurt, and Dave shook his head in disgust. What a big baby. He hated criers. What was the point of crying? That’s what they *wanted* you to do. That was why they hurt you to begin with. Why give them the satisfaction?

He glanced around the room. There was Puck, sporting a bloody nose and sitting next to a woman Dave guessed was his mom. Principal Figgins was lounging behind his desk as usual, looking pissed off. Of course, the man always looked kinda pissed off. Maybe it was a foreign thing. And then there was Kurt, of course, all cuddled up with DaDa like there was no place in the world he would rather be. Weirdos.

His caseworker was nowhere to be seen, which was all good in Dave’s mind, but probably wouldn’t last. The bitch would never miss a chance to nag at him.

Mrs. Mitchell’s hand came down gently on Dave’s arm and he flinched slightly. He’d forgotten she was behind him. Hopefully the throbbing in his head was affecting him more than he realized, otherwise he was *really* losing his touch, forgetting that there was someone at his back, and he needed to be on top of his game if he was gonna go to lockup.

Hopefully Puck wouldn’t go with him. The loser would probably expect Dave to protect him, the selfish fucker. But screw that. Puckerman was big enough and had enough attitude not to end up someone’s bitch or something, so let him get roughed up a little when he went off about his guns or being a sex shark or whatever. It wasn’t Dave’s problem.

“It’s going to be okay, Kurt.”

“That’s what they all say,” Dave spoke up suddenly, a flashing a bloody smirk. “Right before they shove a steak knife in your back.” He winked. “Thanks for the shiner, homo.” Dave wagged his eyebrows just for the effect, despite the fact it hurt like hell. His right eye was swelling pretty badly. He might not even be able to see out of it soon. But it would go down before he made it to the pen, and that was all that mattered.

Kurt’s dad sort of leapt up, a furious look on his face and Dave tensed, ready to take whatever the man was going to dish out to him. He was already fucked up and this guy couldn’t go too far, not with all these people around. If they’d been alone he might have worried about broken legs, or even a “special” kind of punishment for messing with his faggot son. But he couldn’t do that shit here, and if Dave had even a glimmer of hope that he wouldn’t be tried as an adult, then he couldn’t return the punches. And if you can’t return them, well, you gotta roll with them.

The man’s fists clenched and Dave winced inside, though he kept his face carefully blank. This was gonna hurt. Not that he didn’t hurt already. But God, he was tired, and he could really use a damn break between beatings. Nap time, anyone? The man started forward and Dave steeled himself, but then the pretty boy leaned over and caught his father’s arm.

Dave raised an eyebrow at that. Brave kid. He would never have tried to reign in his dad when he was pissed. That’s how you ended up being shoved off the fire escape or some shit.

“Dad, don’t!” Kurt scolded, making Dave shake his head in disbelief. Was his dad really going to take that shit? “It will just make it worse.” He turned around fully in his chair, his gaze locking with Dave’s. And then he went pale. Like, literally, all the color drained away and he was left wide eyed and white, his hand actually trembling where it rested on his dad’s sleeve.

Dave frowned. Why the hell was the homo acting like the boogie man had just gotten him? Surely he knew that Dave couldn’t jump him in here. The cops would take him down, if the boy’s dad didn’t get to him first. He stared at him for a moment, then chuckled inside as a wicked idea took shape. He couldn’t hit the showy little slut, but he could make him sorry he’d flaunted his pretty self at Dave Karofsky.

Dave moved his tongue around in his mouth, pressing at the loose tooth in the back. Oh, yeah, this would be amusing. The tooth would have to come out anyway, and his dad wouldn’t pay for no visit to the dentist—might as well put it to good use.

He smirked again and opened his mouth wide as he reached in with two fingers. A grunt and couple of tugs later and it was free, sitting bloody in his hand. “Hey, fairy,” he said with a grin, holding up the tooth. “Gonna give me money for this tooth?” He tossed it in Kurt’s direction, laughing when it landed in the other boy’s lap. The boy jumped out of his seat with a girly little screech and Dave smirked. “No? Oh well. Thanks anyway for the makeover, princess. I really like the Fight Club look.”

Kurt’s head snapped up from where he had been staring with a look of horror at the tooth on the floor, eyes narrowing. He opened his mouth, probably to say something bitchy, then suddenly their eyes met again and he just froze, that horrified look crossing his face once more. Weird. Seriously, what was wrong with this kid?

Obviously something, because the next thing he did was collapse to his knees on the floor, puking his guts up. Right onto his pretty little fag scarf, nonetheless. Dave stared in disbelief, shaking his head.

“What the fuck?” he said, after a moment, raising an eyebrow as he watched Fancy’s dad kneel down next to him, muttering sweet nothings. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

Kurt just stared at the ground for a moment before those eyes raised, slowly meeting his. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, a pained look on his face. “I’m so sorry.” Okay, either someone had eaten some bad Chinese food today or the pretty boy was just nuts.

Dave’s brow furrowed. Seriously, he was *sorry*? For what? All he’d done was hit Dave in the face, and there was no point in trying to pretend he hadn’t deserved it. And Fancy was sorry? Hell, he should be *happy*, seeing his biggest bully all fucked up.

“Oookay,” Dave said slowly, looking at the other boy strangely. “Whatever.” Not the most brilliant of responses, but what the fuck was he supposed to say? ‘It’s okay?’ ‘I forgive you?’ He searched his memory, trying to remember if anyone had ever apologized for hitting him before. Nope. He’d heard ‘I’m sorry I *didn’t* hit you,’ many a time, but this was a whole new ballgame.

“It’s okay, Kurt,” a whiny, feminine voice came from the doorway, and Dave grimaced as his caseworker, Jessica, walked around him to kneel next to Kurt. “You don’t have anything to be sorry for, young man.”

Dave scowled at that. What a bitch. Okay, it was the truth, but still. Any excuse to call Jessica a bitch was fine with him.

Kurt whimpered like a little girl, glancing back up at Dave and then looking away. “I hurt him… God, *look* at him…”

Jessica looked up at Dave, shooting him a disgusted look, then turned back to Kurt. Dave suppressed the urge to roll his eyes and inform her just what part of his anatomy she should have her mouth wrapped around. 

In the end it really was better to stay on Jessica’s good side or he might very well find himself in the type of foster home where you got rewarded with a piece of toast and half a banana after you mowed the lawn, did the laundry, painted the house, cleaned the bathrooms, sucked some dick, and washed the car--then you could go back to your closet and rot there while the family ate pot roast and apple pie.

“Don’t you worry,” she said calmly, smiling down at Kurt. Yeah, she *would* like the princess. Why the hell was Dave the only one who saw what a flaunting little whore he was? “It looks worse than it is. It’s mostly swelling, and that will go down. He just needs to wash some of the blood off of his face. That’s what makes it look so bad.”

And the broken nose didn’t help. But it wasn’t at a weird angle or anything, so Dave guessed it didn’t count. Oh, who was he kidding? His nose had been broken at least a half a dozen times, so why should anyone give a shit? He couldn’t even breathe through it anymore because his dad had fucked up his… some weird word that started with an ‘s’… when he hit him in the face with a baseball bat.

Dave shook his head in disbelief. The pretty boy had really tossed his guts because Dave was bloodied up? It was just his damn nose. Noses bled when you fucked them up. A lot. And there wasn’t much you could do about it short of sticking a bunch of toilet paper up there and hoping for the best.

“Dude, you puked because I got blood on my face?” Dave snorted slightly at the pitiful look on Fancy’s little face. “Wow. Someone’s got a weak tummy.” He laughed dryly. “Fucking homo.” Really, what an innocent little bitch.

* * *

The other boy’s face was so swollen that you could barely tell who it was. There was a medical tape on his forehead and his nose was stopped up with tissue. The blood had been haphazardly cleaned off, but it was still dripping from his lip and there was a big smear across one cheek. One of his eyes was swollen almost completely shut. Kurt swallowed hard and Karofsky chose that moment to flash him a big smile, revealing a mouth full of blood covered teeth.

Oh, God. He was really, really starting to wish he hadn’t eaten breakfast this morning.

Kurt shivered as a wicked look came over Karofsky. That was not a good look. What was he—OH GOD!

The other boy yanked a tooth out of his mouth with a small grunt, then turned a smile on Kurt, holding it up like some sort of prize.

“Hey, fairy. Gonna give me money for this tooth?” He tossed it suddenly in Kurt’s direction, laughing when it landed in his lap. With a yelp Kurt jumped to his feet, knocking it to the floor as he wiped frantically at his trousers. Karofsky laughed again. “No? Oh well. Thanks anyway for the makeover, princess. I really like the Fight Club look.”

Kurt turned back toward him, a snappy retort on the tip of his tongue, but the words died as he looked over that bloody, bruised face again. He had done that. *He* had done that. The blood, the swelling, the missing tooth… It had all been him. He had done that to another person.

The battle with his breakfast was finally lost as Kurt collapsed to the ground, choking up every last bit in his stomach. Right onto his scarf.

Yeah, it was *definitely* a lost cause.

“Kurt!” His dad knelt down next to him, looking worried. “Are you okay?”

Kurt sniffled, trying to wipe away the vomit on his lips with the back of his hand as he continued to stare up at the bigger boy, unable to take his eyes off of what he had done.

“What the fuck?” came Karofsky’s disbelieving voice. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

“I’m sorry,” Kurt whispered as he continued to stare, not even hearing the other boy. “I’m so sorry.”

Karofsky opened his mouth and the shut it again, looking confused. “Ooookay. Whatever.” Whatever. Whatever wasn’t good enough. Kurt wanted him to understand, to realize how sorry he was—

His thoughts were interrupted by a feminine voice. “It’s okay. You don’t have anything to be sorry for,” a woman Kurt didn’t know said as she knelt down next to him.

“I hurt him… God, *look* at him…”

The woman reached out, brushing his hair lightly with her fingertips. “Don’t you worry. It looks worse than it is. It’s mostly swelling, and that will go down. He just needs to wash some of the blood off of his face. That’s what makes it look so bad.”

Karofsky needed to wash the blood off his face, and Kurt needed to wash it off of his *hands*. Oh, God.

“Dude, you puked because I got blood on my face?” Karofsky asked disbelievingly, shaking his head. “Wow. Someone’s got a weak tummy.”

“Be nice, Dave,” another soft voice said. Kurt looked up as a tiny woman dressed in scrubs stepped out from behind the hulking boy, patting him gently on one big arm. She stepped up to them, glaring down at the woman. “Hello, you must be Ms. Williams. It is nice to get a chance to speak with you face to face. *Finally*.” There was a chill to her voice and Kurt frowned as Karofsky jerked slightly, turning to look at the old woman with a slightly worried face.

“You must be Nora Mitchell,” the woman replied sweetly, standing up and offering her hand to the older lady, a somewhat plastic looking smile on her face. “Please call me Jessica. It’s a pleasure. I am sorry that I never got the chance to come in person. I’m afraid that I have been extremely busy.”

Kurt accepted his dad’s hand, stumbling to his feet and wiping at the throw up with the tissue he’d just ben handed. He frowned. Who was this lady? Karofsky’s grandma?

“You’ve been busy, hm? Too busy to help kids? And here I thought that was why they call it the Child Welfare system.”

Jessica gave the woman a tolerant smile. “Ah, well, I did look into your reports, ma’am, but I didn’t see anything out of the ordinary. If you know Dave at all, then you know he is prone to violent behavior. Boys like him get into a lot of trouble. A few bumps and bruises are to be expected.”

“I am a school nurse, Ms. Williams, and have been for twenty years,” the woman replied, her voice clipped. “And in all my time at schools, I have *never* seen a child get second degree burns on their hands from a fist fight in the corridor.”

Principal Figgins handed Kurt of can of ginger ale and he accepted it, taking a dainty swallow. That’s right—this woman was the nurse. Mrs. Mitchell. But how did she know Karofsky? She seemed pretty upset for just being a nurse.

“Mrs. Mitchell,” Jessica said, crossing her arms over her chest, “you would be *amazed* at what boys can do to one another.”

Karofsky made a rather rude sound, causing the caseworker to turn toward him, scowling. “I suggest you be on your best behavior, Dave, because I am sick of dealing with your crap. And unless you want to be eating out of trash cans and selling your butt for small bucks, I think you had better shape up.”

Whoa, what the hell? Kurt choked slightly on his ginger ale, eyes widening, and even his dad—who he was pretty sure wanted to beat Karofsky into pulp—looked mildly offended. But Karofsky just rolled his eyes, a sullen look on his face.

“Yeah, yeah, keep your fantasies to yourself, lady.” He raised an eyebrow in Kurt and Puck’s direction. “So what’s up? Am I going to the slammer?”

Kurt’s heart fluttered. God, if Karofsky bullied him here, what would it be like when they were in jail together? Especially after what he had done to his face?

“All three of you will be detained at the West Lima Center for Juvenile Offenders until Monday, when Judge Martin will make a decision regarding your parole,” Jessica informed him flatly, flashing him a not particularly kind look.

Though the swelling kind of made it hard to tell, Kurt was pretty sure that Karofsky looked shocked. “Whoa, hold up. The *three* of us? You putting Puckster and Fancy in with me? Are you outta your goddamn mind?”

“Trust me, I dislike the situation as much as you,” Jessica responded primly. “Personally I think that your ass should go to state for this mess and these boys should be able to get back to their lives. But the parole hearing isn’t until Monday and Judge Martin wants you all detained.”

There was a long moment of silence before Karofsky began to laugh, a deep, almost vicious sound. “Oh, my God. This is so freaking crazy that I can’t even think straight.”

“Dammit, Karofsky, it’s not funny!” Puck snapped, managing to look both pissed and terrified at the same time. “This is serious, dude. You may think that you’re a bad ass here at McKinley, but this juvie thing is a whole new level.”

The laughter continued. “Oh, man,” he said finally, voice choked by the chuckles still coming from him. “Seriously, you’re gonna put the faggot behind bars? Because he hit me in the face?” He shook his head. “People hit me in the face all the damn time. You stick Pretty in the pen and you might as well write ‘prison bitch, $10’ on his goddamn forehead.” He laughed again, eyes narrowing as he looked at Kurt. “Ready to lick some boots, Fancy Pants?”

Jessica glared at him. “That’s enough, Dave.”

“You better start practicing your ‘sir, yes, sir,’ Pretty.”

“I said enough!” Jessica reached out and smacked the big boy on the back of the head. He stumbled slightly and clutched at his bandaged head, glaring.

“Hey! Head injury here.”

“I wouldn't worry yourself to much about it. It's not like there are too many brain cells up there to injure,” the woman said dryly. “Now quit acting like a hooligan before I lose my temper and do a hell of a lot more than slap you on the head.”

Karofsky shook his head, smirking. “Whatever. Just don’t expect me to cover your asses, bitches.” He chuckled. “And my best advice? Don’t drop the damn soap.”

With no warning Karofsky was suddenly next to Kurt, tilting his head up with one big hand as he planted a big kiss on his temple, leaving behind a bloody print of his lips. The officer moved forward and grabbed at him as Kurt let out a squeal of protest, and Karofsky laughed again, winking wickedly at Kurt as they yanked his arms behind his back, cuffing him.

“See you in lockdown, homo.”


	3. The Louisville Slugger

Dave held back a yawn, mostly because his bruised face hurt like hell and yawning wasn’t going to help any. At least the swelling around his eye had gone down. It was nice to be able to see again.

“Due to the exceptional circumstances surrounding Mr. Hummel’s sexuality, I believe it would be best if he was placed in special cells.”

The exceptional circumstances surrounding Mr. Hummel’s sexuality? Dave snorted quietly, amused. Only a lawyer could manage to say ‘he’s a little faggot’ in such a politically correct way. God, he’d been sitting in this room with Fancy and Fuckwit for almost an hour while pretty boy’s lawyer argued with prison management over whether they should be dropped into the general population or placed in special cells.

Gen pop, protective custody—in this place it didn’t matter anyway. This was juvenile lockup, aka a minimum security facility. It had always amused Dave that people seemed to think that minimum security was the better deal, ‘cause the prisoners weren’t as bad ass or whatever. Ha. Everybody in this place was just as bad ass as fifteen foster homes, eleven group homes, five stints in lockup, and sixteen years living off the streets could make you.

Minimum security really just meant that the guards didn’t watch you as carefully, meaning that there was more freedom to do things like fuck a mouthy pretty boy on the back stairs or break a snitch’s arm in the rec room. At least in maximum you basically just went from cell to chow and back to cell again.

Dave shifted in his seat, crossing his big arms over his chest as he watched the princess out of the corner of his eye. He had to do something about that little queer. It was the bitch’s fault that he was here to begin with, opening his big mouth, first to his little schoolboy boyfriend and then to Hudson. He clenched his jaw as he glared at the kid.

It was bad enough that his wagging tongue had landed Dave in the pen again—if he started telling tales around here, Dave would be neck deep in shit and bruises. It didn’t matter if the other boys believed the queer or not. Any reason to challenge someone’s manhood in lockup was golden. Another chance to punch your way to the top of the heap. Fancy had already lost Dave his chance to escape that fucking school with a diploma in his hand with this little mess. Dave couldn’t let him ruin his street cred, too.

The arrogant little bitch had no idea what he'd fucked up. Dave had worked *damn* hard to get where he was, balanced precariously on the backs of a bunch of boys who, while just as tough as him, didn’t have the kind of weight to throw around that Dave did. There *were* some benefits to being a big boy, even if the rich kids made fun of him for it. But big boy or not, it had been a tough road.

It was hard to gain a street rep when nobody ever saw you on the streets and, since he went to that suburb school, he had to get up at five to catch the bus from his old man’s place just to get to McKinley on time. With sports practice, it was usually dark when he got back to the wrong side of the tracks, so nobody saw him around much. And when he did go out it was usually to catch a bus over to Riverside Dr. to make a little extra cash—not something he’d ever let his street boys *or* his football buddies know.

But while keeping his street cred up was tough, Dave considered himself lucky that he was in that rich school at all. It gave him a chance to be more than just another piece of street trash. Or had, until the little fag had ripped it all away.

Dave took a deep breath. There was no point in getting pissed over it. If there was one thing he’d learned in his years on this earth, it was that life hands out nothing but shit so you better just take what you are handed and try to build a fort out of it. He wasn’t totally fucked yet—there was still a chance they’d let him off, just so they could let the pansy boy off, too. But if he went ape-shit on the homo, well, then he might as well just drown himself in shit.

Besides, as much as he’d like to blame it all on His Great Faggotness, Dave had been the one trying to choke the life out of Hudson. Having the world know he’d gone homo on Hummel might be a death sentence on the streets, but in suburbia? They probably would have tried to get him to wear rainbows or something. His lip curled in disgust. Fucking faggots. Why the hell would you ever want to celebrate some guy putting his hands all over you? It was disgusting.

He'd had a chance and fucked it up. Boohoo. Of course, it wasn't just *his* dream he'd fucked up. His old social worker had had pretty high fucking hopes, and was a real sweetheart. So when the foster family he’d been living with in the McKinley High district decided they didn’t want an eight year old who wet the bed and stole food from the pantry to hide in his closet, she had practically jumped through hoops so that he could stay in the rich school and play the sports he loved, instead of being shuffled back to the bad side of town where all the sports programs had been cut because there wasn’t even enough money to hire a janitor, much less have a hockey team. And, considering that he was pretty sure that his IQ could be counted on one hand, he was probably lucky they even let him stay at a nice place like that. 

Not to mention the times where he would just get so pissed over, like, nothing that he would get up in class and go kick the bleachers until the pain went away. It was amazing they'd never expelled him. He was pretty sure his old caseworker had done some magic to keep in there. Probably gave them some of the dirty details as to why his temper was so bad. He really was a little thug. 

God, in eighth grade he’d had to literally beg Azimio’s forgiveness when he got into an argument with him and knocked their Christmas tree over. But looking at that stupid tree, all fluffy with its stupid ornaments and its stupid flashing lights and more presents sitting under it than Dave had seen in his whole life had just made him so fucking angry that he lost his head.

Which was crazy in itself, because Azimio’s parents were the only people who had ever given him a Christmas present that wasn’t socks, underwear, or a package of t-shirts. The ironic things was, though, that every year he’d thank them and act all excited then he’d go sell the toy or the game or the ball or whatever and go to Goodwill to buy socks and sweatshirts.

He hated Christmas. But hey, maybe he’d get lucky this year and get to spend it in lockup. Ha.

It was just hard not to be pissed about this whole thing. None of this would have happened if that little faggot hadn’t come into that locker room, looking all pretty and worked up, shouting in his face…

And now all that hard work had turned out to be for nothing. All those hours of trying to do his homework even though he had to hold the books about an inch from his face because his vision was too blurry to read it well. All the things he’d had to shoplift to get his science project done since there was no way his Pops would ever dip into the beer fund just for some stupid school thing. 

Okay, his grades hadn’t been the best, but that didn’t mean he hadn’t *worked.* He wasn’t sure how you measured stupidness or whatever, but if the pretty boy was right about anything it was that Dave was as dumb as a doornail. Hell, he hadn’t even known how to spell his own damn name until he’d started going to the rich school. Mrs. Smithson kept giving him red tally after red tally because he would just write ‘D’ on his papers. After he’d gone three weeks with no recess or snack time she had finally pulled him aside and asked why he refused to write his name. He could still remember the look of shock on her face when he’d told her he didn’t know how. He was surprised she hadn’t stuck him on the short bus. You know you’re stupid when you can’t even write your own name.

But he might as well own up to the fact that it wasn’t *all* Fancy’s fault. When you spent half your time doing everything you could to seem as tough as nails when they dumped you in group homes or stuck you in a foster home with six other kids, it was hard to let go of that attitude just to please the suburbanites.

He’d been living a double life and it had been hard to keep it separate sometimes—especially when his friends at McKinley would walk up behind him and put a hand on his back or some crap like that. It would take everything in him not to turn and put his fist in their face for touching him without his permission. And everyday on the bus ride home he’d take off his polo shirt or his letterman jacket and stuff it in his backpack, tying a bandanna around his head and pulling on an old t-shirt with the sleeves cut off. Instant transformation to bad ass.

Hell, one of the most fucked up, yet ultimately funny, things that had ever happened to him was when he and some dudes had been hanging out in front of the homeless shelter on Bryant St., doing nothing, and Azimio and his parents had shown up at the shelter with their church group. He’d sat on the ground with his head between his knees while Azimio’s mom had chatted with his buddies, pretending that he had passed out drunk or something so she wouldn't see his face.

He’d told Az when he was little that he lived across town and that it would be no fun to hang there because his dad was a stick in the mud. His friend had never questioned it, they just always went to Azimio's house where there was food and games and a heater that worked. But to have been caught sitting in forty degree weather with no coat on outside a homeless shelter, making friends a bunch of gangbangers was *not* how he wanted his friend to think of him. 

Hell, who knew what Az would do if he ever found out the kind of shit that Dave did to survive. That whole encounter had made him *very* nervous... though the whole situation, in retrospect, was really, *really* funny. God, he was such a loser.

But he did what he had to do. On the streets you had to be hardcore. And not in a ‘you’re a geek, I think I’ll shove you’ kind of way. The first time he’d been to lockup they had forced him to fight, over and over again, until he’d finally just sat on Miguel Juarez and broke both his legs. It had made him feel sick, but it had earned him respect and he could finally sleep without worrying that the Arma Asesina or the G Kings would ambush him and gang rape his lily white ass.

After that, both the Double AM and the Run Boys had wanted his big butt and broad shoulders in their crew. He’d gone with the Run Boys, even though he wasn’t really a biker. They didn’t have to know that and, while they might be red-necked racist bastards that Azimio would punch him in the face just for talking to, they *wouldn’t* make him corner some black kid in the showers and break all of his fingers because he should be “working the cotton field, not using up taxpayers’ dollars” like those Aryan fuckers would.

And, unfortunately, that hardcore, street survival attitude was just the kind of shit that leaked over into his suburban world, leading him to choke a boy in the locker room. At a poor school he probably wouldn’t have gotten more than detention. But, no, he’d choked a rich boy and now his fate hung on what that loud mouthed fag might or might not say.

He should just take Fancy out. He wouldn’t have to *kill* him, just beat him until he couldn’t talk no more. Just take him from behind, bang his head into the wall a couple of times so he could never be sure who did it, give him a couple of swipes to the jaw… that would be all it took. Dave had experience.

They’d had to put metal in his jaw after his old man hit him with a baseball bat. It didn’t make going through airport security fun. Actually, Dave had never been to an airport, so he guessed that didn’t matter. But it didn’t make going through prison security fun, either.

…It wouldn’t have to be too bad, though. Just enough to put Fancy out of commission for a few days, just long enough that he couldn’t rattle off his mouth…

Dave licked his lips nervously and snuck another glance at Kurt. For some reason the whole thing just made his stomach feel kind of funny. Fancy looked so… delicate, with his little face and those pretty eyes. And that pouty mouth. Dave blinked, trying to imagine those lips bleeding, those eyes swollen and black, that delicate jaw hanging at an unnatural angle. He tried to imagine that pretty boy looking like Dave had after he’d gotten the bat. It just didn’t… compute.

It made him feel uneasy, maybe a little sick, to think about that nose crooked, those cheekbones cracked. Pretty faces like Kurt’s just weren’t meant to be broken. Hell, the little bitch *asked* for it every time he pranced down the hall puking glitter and rainbows. But… Dave just couldn’t see it. Or didn’t want to see it. Or something. A brute like himself? Sure. But that little pretty boy?

Dave sucked idly on his swollen lip as he remembered the way the princess had grabbed at his dad’s arm in the office, and basically told him to back the hell off. And Daddy had just done as he was told.

It was weird. Kind of like the way Azimio would yell at his dad, would call him a jerk, when they got back after curfew. And his dad would just stand there and tell him he was grounded. In Dave’s mind the dumb ass deserved a fist to the face, talkin’ to his old man like that. But the punches never came. Azimio would just storm off to his room, kicking the stairs on the way up, and then his dad would smile at Dave and ask if he needed a ride home.

He never needed a ride home. He liked Azimio’s dad well enough, but being alone in cars with older guys made him uncomfortable.

Where Dave came from, you didn’t raise your voice to your betters unless you were willing to take the consequences. If they were bigger than you, stronger than you, and you fucked with them—you deserved what you got. Dave had been to the hospital a couple of times, from his Pops’ fists and once from an extension cord that his foster dad used a little too liberally.

But none of them had been worse than the Louisville slugger he’d taken to the face. One, two, three strikes and he was down, but not out—it had taken four or five more hits before everything had gone black. But he’d asked for it. When he’d gotten up in his dad’s face, he’d known what would happen.

But he’d been pissed, so pissed, ‘cause his dad had wanted to take the money that Dave had been working for all year so that he could get a letterman jacket at the start of football season, and spend it on beer. He should have just let it go, but he’d done things that he would have said were his worst nightmares if he hadn’t done them in real life so he could get that damn coat. So Dave had started yelling and the anger had built up and he’d shoved his Pops against the wall…

He’d been lucky that school had just let out for the summer because it had taken him almost two months to heal. And his dad had still taken the money and spent it on drink. The next year all the other boys on the 7th grade football team had made fun of him for being the only one in a yearbook without a jacket. Especially Hudson.

He’d drawn a jacket on Dave’s picture in Sharpie with the words ‘YOU WISH!!!’ written above it, then drawn a big line between him and the rest of the guys with ‘THE AWESOME TEAM’ on one side and ‘THE POOR BOY’ on the other.

Really, ripping that letterman jacket in half with Azimio had been the highlight of his year. Forget about representing the duality in his sexuality—it represented that, for once, little mister ‘I ain’t got no daddy, just a really cool mom who loves me a lot so my life is super tough, whine, whine, whine’ was on the down and out. Which lasted about two weeks—a hell of a lot less time than it had taken Dave’s face to heal—and then Hudson was back on the team.

Some people had all the luck.

But whether Fancy was asking for it or not… the image of him lying in a hospital bed with feeding tubes stuck down his throat because his jaw was to busted to even swallow, much less chew, just made Dave feel… kind of off. Like maybe a little sick. Or something. Whatever. Something weird. Like, maybe when the pretty boy did something it shouldn’t count the same way it did when Dave did something. Which made no sense. But still kind of did. Kurt was... different.

Dave rubbed at the back of his head tiredly. All this thinking was not helping the throbbing in his temples any. But he had to figure out *something* to do about the homo. He had to make it damn clear to pretty pants that if he even *looked* like he was gonna run off his mouth, Dave would put him down so fast it would make Rusty Wallace look slow.

“I’m sorry, sir, but my decision stands. They are going into the general population.” The bored looking dude turned toward the boys, not looking as if he gave a fuck about, well, anything. “The guards will give you your uniforms and cell assignments.”

Going into gen pop. Woohoo. Glad they wasted an hour deciding *that.*

As the guard half directed, half herded them toward the changing rooms, a small, terrified noise came from Puckerman, making Dave roll his eyes. The little shit needed to stop acting like a big baby if he wanted to make it in this neighborhood. And especially if he was gonna try and hang around Dave--which he probably would--as if Dave gave a shit about the kid who had called him ‘Gravy Davy’ and ‘The Human Trash Can’ for most of his childhood. Asshole. Let Puckerman see what it was like to go a week without food and *then* he could make rude remarks about Dave’s eating habits.

“Look Puckerman,” Dave said flatly, shoving the boy ahead of him as they headed into the changing room, making him stumble slightly. “You need to stop acting like a scared little bitch or you’re gonna become a scared little bitch—literally. And I don’t need any of that kind associated with me.” He pushed Puckerman out of his way as he moved over to the table on the far side to grab his garb. “If you acted like this last time you were here, I’m surprised you weren’t turned into a fuckboy the first damn day.”

“Shut the hell up, Karofsky,” Puckerman muttered, not even bothering to look him in the eye. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. I’ll be fine.”

Dave snorted. Someone was lying to himself. Or trying, anyway—from the near panic in the other boy’s eyes, his little lie was not sticking well. How the hell had he handled himself the first time he was here? Dave would have bet the farm that the Double AM would have made mince meat out of his Jewish ass. Dave paused, frowning as he looked Puckerman up and down thoughtfully. Hm. That was a possibility…

“Hey, Puckerman? You tell anybody that you’re Jewish last you were here?”

“I didn’t exactly have any deep, religious discussions while I was here, Karofsky,” Puck snapped back, looking irritated. “I was a little busy trying to cover my ass.”

Dave raised an eyebrow. Hm. It would explain a lot… “Hey, anybody ever talk to you in Spanish?”

“What? No. Well, I mean, I guess some of the Hispanic guys did sometimes, but I don’t know Spanish.” He shrugged. “Mr. Schue just passes me so that I can stay in Glee.”

Dave smirked. “I was wondering how you got outta here with no major damage, being a smart ass *and* a Jew. I bet you a million bucks that they thought you were Mexican.”

“What?” Puckerman asked, sounding confused.

“Dark skin, dark hair, dark eyes. You don’t have Jewish features like the hobbit chick. They probably thought you were a spic. You don’t fuck with the Latinos. All of their Catholic morals—you know, no birth control but lotsa fucking—means that a Mexican always has, like, a hundred and ten rabid brothers all living in a cardboard box just waiting to put a cap in your ass if you fuck with one of theirs. Hell, half the spics in this place are probably related.

"That doesn’t mean that another spic won’t go after you, but the blacks and the bikers and the Italians and shit will mind their own business. And the Nazis, too, usually. Because spics take care of their own kind, just like niggers.”

“Really, Karofsky,” Kurt said coldly, “I wonder what your little bully friend would say if he heard you talking like that.”

“Azimio isn’t around,” Dave said flatly, “and if he was, he could suck my dick. Because if he gets pissed at me he’ll throw a slushie in my face, not break my damn arms.” He smacked Puckerman hard on the back, grinning a little viciously when he tripped forward. “But for the love of Moses or Abraham or whoever you worship, don’t tell anyone you’re a Jew. I’m pretty sure that JJ Graham is still up in this joint, and you can argue with that Nazi bastard for a billion years and he will still swear to the Father, the Son, and the Aryan Spirit that Jesus was born in Alabama to white, Protestant farmers with an old pickup, forty shotguns, and a shed full of fertilizer bombs.”

Puckerman scowled, grabbing his pile of clothes. “I’m a proud Jew, man! The chosen people!”

“Yeah, chosen by the Aryans to get butt fucked in the shower,” Dave replied with a sneer. He smirked slightly at the sick look that passed over Puckerman’s face. Yeah. Let the Jew sweat. “JJ Graham runs the Aryan gang here. They call themselves All American Made—the Double AM. JJ’s been around for years. Blew up a black church trying to recreate some crazy shit his daddy did that got him locked up for life. JJ turned a hundred blacks into so much raw meat on that bright and shiny Sunday morning.

"But he’ll be out on the streets again in two years because he was only nine when he did it. You can’t charge someone that young as an adult. He is *not* the sort of guy you want to flaunt your Jewishness to, Puckerman. So just play nice, say you’re a spic, and try to talk a lot about how much you love our good, white bread Messiah, Jesus H. Christ."

Puckerman stared at him for a moment, looking like he was on the verge of shooting back a smart ass remark and wasn’t sure if he should really go through with it. A fast learner. Good for him. It would serve him well in the pen if he could keep his sassy hole shut. The schmuck was almost as bad as the little faggot slut about flaunting himself.

“Come on, boys,” a guard snapped, sounding irritated. “I ain’t got all year and I’d rather be sitting on my ass watching my TV shows in the office, not waiting for you bitches to play gossip girl. Now get your garb on and let’s go.”

Kurt blinked down at the pile of orange clothes in his arms then glanced around in confusion. “Where do we change?”

Dave laughed, tugging off his t-shirt. “Right here, fancy pants.” He smirked at the little princess’ eyes widened. Hell, this was probably the fag's best dream. Little queer. “What? You suddenly shy? And here I thought you *loved* being the center of attention.” Especially with the way he paraded around in those gaudy little outfits, practically screaming ‘I’m a homo, look at me!’

Kurt shot him a pretty impressive glare, considering the fact that the boy’s eyes were red and puffy from crying. “Aren’t you worried I’m going to steal a look at your ‘junk,’ Karofsky?”

“Lady face,” he said with a sneer, “in this place, the Guy Code does not apply. Everybody who wants to will be taking a look at your junk. So pull it out and let’s compare.” Let the little bitch chew *that* over for awhile. And as a little bonus… Without warning Karofsky dropped his jeans and boxers to the ground, leaving it all hanging for the world to see. Fancy wanted to be a faggot? Let him have a look at this.

“Oh, for God’s sake, Karofsky!” Kurt covered his eyes with a delicate hand, making Dave smirk. “I did not want to see that!”

Yeah right. Little homo. “Too bad,” Dave replied, voice a little harsh. He started to fish the white boxers out of his pile of orange clothes, then winced at the sharp pain in his temple. God, he could use a couple of hours of sleep. But he couldn’t relax until he was sure that Fancy wouldn’t run his mouth to the entire cell block.

God, this was a mess. Fucking sick homo or not, the pretty boy should *not* be here. 'Oh my God, he’s hit Dave in the face!' And this is a crime worthy of sticking the little queen in with every hardcore motherfucker in the city? Hell, they hadn’t even taken Dave away from his Pops after he decided to practice his back swing on his son’s face.

Of course, Dave had lied and said he was mugged—or written it, actually, because he couldn’t talk for almost two weeks—but that wasn’t the first time his old man had beaten the crap out of him when he acted up, and no seemed to care *then*. But some rich, suburb princess hits him and they decide to stick the wimpy little queen behind bars for it?

Hell, Dave could probably pick Fancy up and break him in half. And with his bitchy attitude and ‘strong ideals’ or whatever, he’d be in deep shit for sure. If you wanted to act like a big man, you had to be able to back it up. And if you tried to rise above your place, well, whatever happened was your own fucking fault. And the princess did *not* have what it took to play with the big boys.

Seriously, the homo was going to end up a bitch for sure. Just another dull eyed white boy wandering around like they might as well be dead, meat for anything with a dick that walked by. And that was another image that… well, it just so wasn’t Kurt. He was such a spunky little bitch, so arrogant and proud, all self-righteous… it was was even harder to imagine his spirit broken than his face.

But what other choice would a pretty thing like him have? He couldn’t protect himself, he needed someone to do it for him. But Dave couldn’t see Fancy as a prison queen, either. He was way too middle class, nose in the air, prissy bitch to just give it up easy and be a queen. He’d probably be better off that way, because at least the queens got a little bit of say about when and where they had to give it up. At least until their man started pimping them out.

But being a queen was a survival of the fittest move, and Kurt hadn’t grown up in that world. Prison queens were small, mostly white boys who knew they’d just be turned into fuckboys—anybody’s bitch—if they tried to fight it, and so they just gave in and became ‘ladies’ to the gangbangers. They did what they had to do to keep themselves from being a bitch. They might be fuck toys, but at least they weren’t broken.

But even with the way fancy pants flaunted himself around like some slut on a street corner, with his sparkly clothes and his limp wrists, Dave didn’t think he fucked around a lot. He just didn’t seem the type. And he doubted that a princess like Kurt would ever just lay down and take it with a smile. He seemed more the type to demand silk sheets or something stupid. He had attitude, and no street skills, which did not make for a good equation.

Dave tried again to imagine Prince Sparkles as a bitch. Tried to imagine him, sitting in a corner crying or some shit because ten guys had just raped him in the shower and there was nothing he could do about it. Bitches were the lowest of the low. They were just what they called them: fuck boys. Boys that you fuck. Half the time people didn’t even know their names. They just called them bitch or slut or boy.

Dave swallowed hard. That weird feeling was back in his stomach. It was just… an unreal thought. It just… wasn’t Kurt Hummel. The image of him being yet another boy with blood running out his butt and empty, dead eyes did not mesh with the little fairy who was standing next to him, oh so carefully folding all his fancy schmancy clothes piece by piece, as if the guards gave a damn about keping it nice and neat.

It was just four days. Maybe the pretty boy could hold on for that long. Maybe--something caught Dave's eye as he glanced down. What the hell?

“Dude, what’s on your feet?”

Kurt looked up abruptly. “Excuse me?” His voice was prim and Dave shook his head in disbelief as he stared at the smaller boy’s toes.

“What the fuck is on your feet, homo?”

The other boy clenched his jaw, looking annoyed. “Don’t call me that, Karofsky. And it’s nail polish. You may have heard of it. It’s a polish. That goes on your nails.”

Smart ass. “Dude, it’s *pink.*”

“It goes well with my skin tone.”

“And *sparkly*.” Oh, God. Forget four days. Fancy wasn’t going to last through tonight’s shower. “Fucking hell, fairy! You need to get that shit off of your toenails.”

Kurt turned his nose up at that. “I like it, Karofsky. How I paint my nails is none of your business.”

Dave gritted his teeth and pointedly turned away. What the fuck did he care? It didn’t matter what happened to Ladyface as long as he didn’t open his mouth about shit that was nobody’s business. And he should damn well know better than to go spreading Dave’s private life to anyone in here. But if he didn’t know enough not to paint his toenails sparkly pink before going to the *slammer,* who the hell *knew* where this little faggot’s head was.

He had to make it clear that if prissy boy leaked his mouth, Dave would be leaking his blood. He had to make sure the little queer *understood.* He had to do *something*…

Dave reached out suddenly, grabbing one of the homo’s delicate little wrists, yanking him forward so that the smaller boy almost tumbled into him, his big hand squeezing that tiny wrist hard enough to make the little slut whimper.

He had to *understand.*

“Hey!” Puck said, looking up when Fancy made another small, pained noise. “What are you—” He cut off abruptly as Dave turned his head, glowering at the other boy. Oh, yes. The Smile of Pain worked its magic again. Thanks, Pops.

“Just listen here, faggot,” Dave said, his voice rough and low. He grabbed the back of Kurt’s head, pulling it forward until his lips were brushing the other boy’s ear. “That little… incident we had? It never fucking happened, okay? I’ve let it go in the past when you ran off your big mouth, but next time? I won’t be so forgiving. If I even *think* that you’re gonna blab—you will be worse than dead. You’ll spend the rest of your goddamn life hooked up to breathing machines praying that they’ll pass laws allowing doctors to off their patients or whatever. You got it?”

Puck had apparently picked his balls back up off the floor and reattached them, because he chose that moment to give Dave a little shove from behind. Dave released the smaller boy who stumbled back, clutching at his wrist, eyes wide.

Dave stared at him for a long moment then gave a sharp nod. They were clear now. Good. It was time that Fancy learned that there were consequences for fucking with people stronger than you.

Dave turned back to the table, grabbing his pants and pulling them up over his boxers, ignoring the death glare that Puck was shooting him and the frightened little sounds coming from pretty boy’s general direction. Really, they were both such fucking drama queens. You’d have thought he broken the homo’s knees or something.

“Okay, boys,” one of the guards said, pushing some plastic tubs their way. “In here you’ll find everything you need for your holiday stay. Toothpaste, toothbrush, soap, toilet paper. I suggest you hoard it like gold, because that’s what it’s worth in here. Especially the toilet paper.” He nodded toward the far door. “Now, let’s go.”

Dave almost laughed aloud at the look on Fancy’s face as he stared down at their ‘necessities.’ Not up to your usual bathing standards, princess? The bitch probably showered in diamonds or some shit. Welcome to a whole new world. Really, Ladyface needed to shape up fast or he was gonna get torn apart.

Not that Dave cared if he got torn apart. It just seemed weird that it wasn’t going to be him who was doing the tearing. Fancy had always kind of been *his* to tear. Or whatever. Maybe he should just warn him… Not that he cared. But shoving the bitch into lockers really *was* a good way to ease the tension.

“Hey, Pretty,” he said as they headed down the hall, pausing at the end for another scan. Yay, more metal detectors for his jaw to set off! “You just be careful, okay fancy pants? JJ would like you. You are definitely white bread and faggots don’t breed, so the Nazi bastard would probably overlook your homo-osity if it got him a new bootlicker. But *really* watch for the Gangsta Kings. The Arma Asesina, too. But mostly the G Kings. The niggers will take you down before the spics.”

Kurt turned toward him very slowly, his shoulders tensed and a carefully blank look on his face. “Just leave me alone, Karofsky,” he said, voice sounding a little hoarse. “Please.”

Dave frowned. “I’m just giving you fair warning, homo. With that ass and your big mouth… Well, this is lockup and that hole isn’t just for singing anymore.”

At that Fancy’s mouth dropped open and a furious look flooded his features. Good for him. Furious would serve him a hell of a lot better in the pen than terrified would. “For God’s sake, will you ever just get over the fact that I’m gay, Karofsky?!”

God, Ladyface was so damn Suburb that it hurt. “It doesn’t have anything to do with who you fuck in your free time, pansy. In here, fucking isn’t about sex. It’s about power. If they stick you once, you lose your manhood forever. And you, little miss pretty, itty, bitty white boy, are exactly the type they go after. One moment all will be good and the next, you’ll be the G Kings’ bitch, spending your afternoons sucking black cock and being sold for candy bars. I seen it before.”

Fancy’s eyes were wide, but the furious look was still on his face, his fists clenched at his side. Good boy. Get pissed. If Kurtsy wouldn’t give it up like a good girl, he should give it his best fight. “Stop trying to scare me, Karofsky! We’re only in here for four days! I think I can handle myself, you ignorant bastard!”

Dave shook his head. Such a confidant little bitch. What was it like to have that kind of confidence? He bet Kurt would never have just stood there while his cellmate was gang raped. Kurt would never have just watched idly while the Double AM beat a black kid to death. Kurt would never have just lain there and taken it like a whore when a man—

Dave cut that line of thought off abruptly. It’s didn’t matter what Fancy would or wouldn’t do. The confidence that worked so well for him in his politically correct little Partridge Family universe? It would get him killed behind these walls. Yeah, Dave was a piece of worthless trash. He did fucked up things and hurt people just for the hell of it. But he survived. An attitude like Fancy’s would just get him killed.

Dave eyed Kurt as the princess strutted through the metal detector, ever the flaunting fairy, orange scrubs or no orange scrubs. Really, he was so pretty…

Dave grimaced as the disgust for that faggot, the disgust for himself, the disgust for fucking *everything* slammed hard into his chest. And, not for the first time, he kind of wished that his Pops had used a crow bar instead of that baseball bat. At least then he wouldn’t have had to deal with this fucking faggot. It was kind of hard to kiss boys from the grave.

 

* * *

 

Breathe in, breathe out. Okay, he just needed to stay calm. It would all be okay… Kurt looked down at his orange scrubs and winced. Okay, maybe it wouldn’t *all* be okay. But mostly…

He stepped through the door and at least eighty Dave Karofskys of varying ethnicities, heights, and hair care routines stared back at him.

Oh, God, he was screwed.

The real Karofsky yawned widely next to him, looking pretty relaxed for someone who had just threatened to leave him in a hospital bed for the rest of his life then made crude remarks about his sexuality. If he heard the word 'bitch’ one more time he was going to slap that boy across the face. Not funny, Karofsky. Not funny at all. He was a stupid, bullying, fashionless Neanderthal. 

The boy caught his eyes and winked. Somehow all the bruises just made it more creepy. He really hadn't thought that was possible.

 

Kurt swallowed deeply, turning away. It still made him feel… weird… that *he* had done that. At least all the swelling had gone down and Karofsky no longer looked like something from a horror flick. And the social work lady had been right—he did look better without blood between his teeth. He did still have medical tape running across his forhead, and his nose had a little pad taped across it, but it didn’t really seem to bother him much. Karofsky was certainly feeling well enough to threaten Kurt, anyway.

And, from the looks on the faces of most of these guys, all the multi-colored Karofskys were feeling well enough to do a hell of a lot more than just threaten.

Kurt took a deep breath and reached out slowly toward Puck, gently tugging on his sleeve. The taller boy jumped, backing away a few steps with wide eyes before he realized it was Kurt who had touched him, then took a deep breath, visibly trying to relax.

Kurt could certainly understand the tension.

“Uh, yeah, what, Kurt?” Puck’s eyes danced back over to the room full of people staring at them, his shoulders tensing again.

Kurt moved closer to him, lowering his voice as he eyed Karofsky, who was apparently engaged in some weird ritual where he’d meet a guy’s eye, stare for a moment, turn his lip up in a sort of baring of teeth, then move on to another boy. “I was just thinking that you and I should try to, you know, watch each other’s backs. We won’t be here long, so if we can just help each other out, I think we could be okay.”

There, that was sensible. Much more sensible than any of Karofsky’s ramblings had been. This was just juvenile hall, not federal prison. There were no serial killers or child molesters or hit men. Just troubled teens—and they had plenty of those at McKinley. Just look at half the football team.

Puck licked his lips nervously, glancing from Kurt, back to the room in general, then to Kurt again. “Yeah,” he muttered, not quite meeting the other boy’s eye. “We should do that.”

Kurt frowned. *That* was quite a rousing endorsement.

“Just as long as you two bitches don’t expect me to look out for you,” Karofsky said dryly, his strange caveman ritual apparently complete as he turned back toward them.

“You know what?” Puck spoke up, his suddenly heated voice sounding more like his normal tough guy talk than it had since they’d been taken from McKinley. “You can talk big about how you’re a badass in the slam, but I bet it’s all shit. You’re just trying to look tough to us so that maybe you’ll look tough to other guys.

"Dude, the Puckster spent, like, a month in here. This is *hell,* okay? You might be a big man at McKinley but this place makes Porta Potties and Dumpsters look like vacation spots! So quit mouthing off and giving advice about shit you don’t even *know*, Karofsky. You can say whatever you want—if this joint is hardcore for the Puckster, a stupid bully like you is in deep shit.”

Karofsky rolled his eyes. “Dude, would you please stop referring to yourself in the third person? The Karofster thinks it’s fucking stupid.”

“Okay, boys, time to join the convent.” A guard moved over toward them, handing out small paper maps. Your cells are circled in red. Karofsky, Hummel, you two will be in block A, cell 13. Puckerman, you'll be in block A, cell 2.”

Okay, hold up. Pause, rewind. He was in a cell with *Karofsky*? Oh *hell* no! A rush of nausea crashed over him as he looked at the hulking boy staring stupidly at him through his bruises, a big, vicious grin on his face. Oh, God, this could *not* be happening. “This can’t be right. Please, please, can I change cells? Maybe Puck and I could—”

“Cell assignments are final. Now get lost. Dinner is in a half hour, you shower at eight, nighttime lockdown is at ten.” The guard gave Kurt a little shove as he turned to head back to where ever guards go to watch their TV shows, and Kurt stumbled slightly, almost dropping his little tub of supplies.

Kurt swallowed hard as he straightened, up holding his tub close to his chest as he looked wide eyed at the room with all of its Karofskys. His heart began to pound a little faster. Oh dear God.

The room was big and long, with tables scattered kind of randomly around it. The kids—if you could call these huge, built boys 'kids'—were huddled together in groups that reminded Kurt of a sort of bastardized version of the cliques at school. Only instead of cheerleaders you had drug dealers.

At one end was a large group made up almost entirely of African-American boys, most of whom were positively gargantuan, with a couple of dead eyed, exhausted looking white boys sitting on the floor next to them.

Almost opposite them was a group of Hispanic boys who were tossing books into a trash bin like they were playing a mentally retarded version of basketball and chatting loudly in Spanish. There were a couple smaller groups of tough looking white guys, one of which Kurt figured was the Double… whatever… that Karofsky had been talking about since their heads were shaved and they had very prominent swastika tattoos on their arms.

The other group of badass looking white guys were all wearing bandannas on their heads and had their ugly orange pants stuffed into combat boots. Not a good look. Like the grunge movement gone seriously wrong.

Kurt frowned. How had they gotten boots to begin with? At check in they had all been given plain white tennis shoes that had elastic instead of laces and just slipped on your foot. They had definitely been worn before, because they smelled horrible. Really, if he got gangrene from this place, he was totally suing.

There was also a small group of not-so-tough looking, mostly white boys off to one side who were waving in their direction and making kissy faces. Several of them were wearing poorly done makeup, and the one black boy in the group had somehow managed to turn his hideous orange pants and shirt into a midriff top and a miniskirt. Kurt winced and the gods of fashion wept.

“Queens,” Karofsky said flatly when Kurt made a disgusted face at the boys, who had now moved up from kissy faces to lewd gestures. *Very* lewd gestures. He grimaced as one of them mimed sucking dick.

Karofsky nudged Kurt and he flinched slightly before turning to glare at the bigger boy. He needed to stop being so jumpy. No doubt having Kurt terrified and at his mercy was exactly what Karofsky wanted.

The big boy laughed, waving a hand at the badly makeup'd boys. “Sort of your kind, eh, Fancy?” Kurt scowled. Smart ass bastard.

The somewhat witty, but mostly crude, remark Kurt was going to make was cut off when a small white boy wearing red lipstick and way too much eye shadow stumbled up to them, literally falling into Karofsky’s arms. “Hiiii Davey!” he said, a big, dopey grin on his face.

Karofsky smirked, shaking his head in amusement as he lifted the boy up, setting him back on his feet. “Um, hello there.”

The boy smiled brightly. “Don’t you remember me? I lived in Apartment 14!”

Karofsky frowned for a moment, brow furrowing, then apparently had a lightbulb moment, because he grinned, nodding. “Oh, hey, Jake! I didn’t recognize you. Nice look. How’s it going?”

“Pretty gooood…”

Karofsky’s lip twitched in amusement. “Still on smack?”

The boy—Jake?—giggled. “Uh-huh! You gots any?”

“Sorry man,” Karofsky said, holding up empty hands. “No go. You know I’m clean.”

“Damn,” the boy muttered, scowling.

“Hey, Jackie!” one of the big, black guys called out loudly, waving from across the room. “C’mere, baby! You know I don’t like you messin’ with other men without my say so, little girl! Come over here and suck my cock.” The other boys in the group laughed loudly and Kurt was pretty sure he vomited a little in his throat.

Oh, God. This was *not* good.

Jake or Jackie or whatever his name was giggled again, blowing the boy a kiss as he began to trip his way over to him.

“Aw, isn’t love sweet?” Karofsky grinned wickedly. “His little valentine.”

Kurt just stared after the boy, eyes wide. Oh, God. Okay. It was okay. It would be okay. He was only going to be here for four days. Just four days. He would be fine.

“Just ignore them,” Puck said, staring kind of dully at no one eyes, flicking back and forth too fast to really focus on anything. Someone was taking nervous to a whole new level. “The weird little girl-boys won’t hurt you. It’s the big dudes you gotta worry about. Not the bitches.”

“Bullshit,” Karofsky said, rather forcefully, shaking his head. “Those aren’t bitches. They’re queens, fags, girls, ladies, whatever. But they’re not like fuckboys. You should always watch your back around queens. Just because they belong to some dude doesn’t mean they’re not vicious little whores. I once had a cellmate named Candy that, if anybody ever asked her how she survived in a place like this, she’d say that she fucked like a woman but she fought like a man." 

He paused, cocking his head to the side a little. "Now, real bitches or fuckboys or whatever you wanna call ‘em… most of them are too messed up in the head to try and do shit.” He nodded his head toward a small boy who was sitting all alone, his head in his hands, staring at nothing. “There’s no one lower in the pen than fuckboys. They’re anybody’s bitch and even the queens look down on them. But that’s what they get for trying to resist what’s going to happen, whether theylike it or not.”

Karofsky shrugged then turned his gaze on Kurt, a strange look on his face. God, that boy was good at looking creepy. After a long moment Karofsky shoot his head abruptly. “I suggest you just give it up willing, faggot,” he said, voice a little rough as he turned away. “At least you got your love of all things homo going for you. Better to be a queen than a bitch.”

Kurt viciously shoved down the panic that was trying very, very hard to take over his body. They were only there for a few days. Karofsky was just trying to get to him. He just had to be strong and everything would be all right. 

Kurt took a deep breath, trying to steady himself. “I am not going to be anyone’s anything,” he said, voice clipped. “I plan to hold onto my dignity for a little longer than that, thank you very much.”

“Fancy,” Karofsky replied, scanning the room, his eyes coming back to rest on Kurt. “In this place, ain’t nobody got any dignity. Not you and sure as hell not me.” With that fortune cookie wisdom, Karofsky walked off toward one of the tables of tough boys, leaving Kurt staring blankly at his back.

Kurt took a deep breath. Four days. It was just four days. One of the big black guys across the room blew him a kiss.

Oh, God, he was so totally screwed.


	4. Dropping the Soap

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, no actual racist feelings meant from Dave to the gang of black dudes. He's a biker. They're an African American gang. They just don't like each other. Hence the use of the N-word. And the 'fag' word. It's jail. They all deal. Just thought I'd stick that in here before I get lectured by an eleven year old. Believe it or not, people do not talk nice in jail. ;P Also, at one time this chapter and Chapter 5 were one... but then they got a little long. Alas, they are now two chapters with matching names. Embrace the love. ;)

This was a bad joke. Seriously, it was like Saturday Night Live done sadistic: If it wasn’t so pitiful, it would be fucking hilarious.

Kurt stared down at the soap in annoyance. Who the hell did it think it was to slip out of his hand in a communal prison shower? And it wasn’t even a good brand, dammit! He hadn’t actually realized that they *made* unscented soap. Yeah, obviously, not all soap was blended with essential oils and shipped direct from Italy, but he’d thought they were at least ‘Clean Rain’ scented or ‘Sudsy Summer’ smell.

Yet here was living proof that there were, indeed, soap makers out there who did nothing but cut tiny white bars of soap-scented soap and wrap them in tissue paper. The real question, though, was whether or not it was worth risking a gang bang just to recover his precious piece of crap soap. God, it was cheap. Cheap like *everything* in this place. Cheap like his clothes. Cheap like his sheets. Cheap like the plastic forks they ate with. Cheap like his ass if he bent over at an inopportune moment.

Damn Karofsky for landing him in this place. Fuck all the guilt about the bruises. Having to sleep on sheets that smelled like used diapers and bathe with uncolored, unscented, and probably unapproved by the FDA bath items was a thousand times worse than any broken bones or missing teeth. *He* would sure as hell take a punch in the face over having to use the fifty-cent plastic razor they’d given him to shave his legs. At least he wouldn’t have to use it on his face *and* his legs, since he hadn’t actually started growing facial hair yet.

Kurt sighed as studied his traitorous soap. He had better decide what to do soon because the little bar was not holding up well against the steady stream of water coming from the shower head, and there probably wouldn’t be enough left to wash his ass with, much less his hair, if he didn’t grab it up soon.

Seriously, they expected them to wash their *hair* with *bar* soap? It was beastly. Of course, this whole *place* was beastly. At least he’d managed to get into the showers before the entire cellblock decided to wash up. He’d had plenty of hell trying to figure out the ever-present yet oh-so-obscure ‘Guy Code’ in the locker rooms at school. God only knew what insanities prevailed in this place.

Hm. Maybe he could turn his butt toward the wall and sort of, like, scoot down to collect his soap. Of course that would just leave *other* parts he really didn’t want to flash before all prominently displayed. What the hell was so wrong with having partitions in a shower anyway?

Kurt took a deep breath, glancing around the mostly empty room. For God’s sake, was Puck coming or not? He’d said he would meet him there as soon he dumped his stuff in his cell. At least if he was there they could watch each other’s backs.

Okay, time to calm down. It was just soap. And the dropping the soap thing? It was an old, stupid joke. It wasn’t, like, serious. And even if it was, he really shouldn’t be so worried about this. There were only two other boys in the shower and they were both scrawny white kids who kind of looked like they were operating in a full-on zombie drug haze. If zombies shot up, anyway, because both of them had needle marks all over their arms and thighs.

And, considering that one of them also had someone’s initials branded on his ass and the other’s back was covered with nasty welts, Kurt could see why they might have resorted to a drugtastic escape. He swallowed down the nervousness building up in his chest as he watched them. He was only here for a few days. He would be *fine.*

Okay, just one quick dip down to grab the soap and—

“Heeello, faggot. Aren’t you just the prettiest bitch in the world?”

Oh, shit.

Kurt steeled himself, turning around slowly and then staggering backward until his back was pressed against the concrete wall as he took in the group before him. He reached up, wiping the water from his face as he stared, wide eyed, at the small collection of black boys. Or he assumed they were boys, considering that this was juvenile lockup. If he had seen them on the street he wouldn’t have thought the enormous guys were less than twenty-five. And then he probably would have crossed to the other side of the street just to avoid having to look them in the eye—especially the boy standing in front, who kind of looked like he should be playing pro-football, or maybe just sumo-wrestling.

God, he was big. And also very naked. Which made sense, considering that they were standing in a communal shower, but somehow managed to be one of the most intimidating things Kurt had ever seen--even when compared to Coach Sylvester holding a confetti cannon stuffed with bullets and Coach Beiste in full football pads and bad makeup facing off on the field after school. And *that* was pretty damn intimidating.

The big boy flashed a mouth full of gold teeth as he smiled, crossing his big arms over his chest as he winked over his shoulder at the three also big, but not quite as gargantuan, boys behind him.

This was not good. No, this was NOT GOOD. Scenarios such as this deserved full capitalization as testament to their NOT GOODness.

Kurt’s chest fluttered nervously as he pressed harder against the wall behind him. People were always talking about how they wished that the walls or the floors would just open up and swallow them whole. For there to be so many references to such things it *had* to have happened once or twice, right? Because Kurt was pretty sure right then would be a good time for a repeat performance.

Or maybe all those times Karofsky had called him a princess would come magically true. He could *really* use a fairy godmother right then. Or even just an animated teapot to use as a distraction would be nice. A flying carpet? A genie to grant him his dying wishes? A deer hunter to take out the boys staring cruelly down at him and leave Bambi to escape?

Okay, he really needed to stop watching old Disney flicks with Mercedes.

“Um, hello…” Kurt said as slowly as possible, trying to stall whatever mischief these imbecilic thugs had in store for him as he scanned the showers for help. Any kind of help. Where the hell were the guards in this place anyway? He tried to catch the eye of one of the other boys washing across the room but apparently they were blind to his plight. Or just didn't care. A much more likely scenario.

“Uh, hello,” the big boy said sarcastically, bursting into laughter with a wicked grin on his face. “Nice to meet you, pretty girl.”

Kurt looked around again, a little more frantically this time. No one. How was it that there was no one to help him? This was juvie, not the inner city. Weren’t they supposed to *watch* you? A guard had buzzed him into the showers, he had to have buzzed these boys in, too. Where the fuck was *he*? Where was anyone? Had Puck gone and fallen off the damn Earth?

The big boy started forward and Kurt tried to dart to the side but was stopped when one of those fat hands grabbed him around the arm like it was a twig and hauled him back. “Not so fast there, baby girl. We ain’t done with you yet.” He looked over at his buddies, smirking crudely. “We ain’t even started yet, ‘ave we, boys?”

“Hell no, brotha,” one of the other guys said with a laugh. “Tiny Tom ain’t even started.”

Tiny Tom? This mammoth’s name was *Tiny Tom*? The guy had to be 6’4” and weigh at least three hundred pounds. And he’d thought “Big D” was a stupid nickname. Maybe he should be *thankful* for “Ladyface”.

A movement on the other side of the shower caught Kurt’s eye. Okay, Puck hadn't fallen off the Earth--but the way he was hovering almost out of sight as he took in the scene with wide eyes wasn't very reassuring. Kurt swallowed hard. Come on, Puck. Now was *not* the time to be an asshole.

Kurt tried to shove at “Tiny” Tom as the kid reached out to smack at his thigh, just causing the big black boy to laugh again as he blocked the push with one hand. "Really, kiddo, just give it up now. You ain't got nothin' on us."

Kurt's eyes danced back over to Puck. What the hell was he doing? “Puck!” Kurt snapped, trying to to avoid the big hands that seemed set on feeling him up. He blushed as Tiny Tom grabbed for parts that he was *not* used to anyone but himself touching. Oh, God, this was not good. "Puck, help me!" 

"Shut the fuck up, bitch," one of the boys behind Tiny Tom said, rolling his eyes. "You think that bitch is gonna save you?" Kurt let out a cry as Tiny Tom flung him into the wall again, pain ripping through his arm as he struck the concrete shoulder first.

“Puck!” What the hell was he doing?! And why the hell was he cupping his nipple?!

“Shut da fuck up,” Tiny Tom said, sounding a little bored, as he backhanded Kurt across the face almost casually, not even really watching as the smaller boy dropped from the blow, tears welling up in his eyes as the blood began to run from his lip. He'd been thrown into a lot of Dumpsters but he'd never actually been hit in the face before.

The big black boy grinned widely and wrapped his thick fingers around his slowly hardening dick, nodding in Puck’s direction and then laughing at the look of panic that crossed the boy’s face. “C’mon, Suck-a-man! You know you likes it! Get ova here and we can make it a five on one, whaddya say? Or would you rather it be a four on two?” He laughed loudly. “Goin’ in the front door, comin’ out the back!”

Fear flashed through Kurt as Puck took a sudden step backward, eyes wide. “K-Kurt… I…”

“Yeah, y’know, wha? I think you better grabs that one, Kiwan! I like me a four on two. Let’s fuck-a-man Puckerman! We show everybody how’s it’s done!” He smacked one of his friends on the shoulder, and they both erupted into cruel laughter.

Kurt sniffled and rubbed at his tears as he tried to stop the blood running from the cut on his lip. God, it hurt. How the hell had Karofsky even talked with his whole face all swollen?

"J-just g-get away from him!" Well, at least he was trying. That would be a little more heartening if he wasn't also backing out of the room. 

The boys all laughed. "Aw, I don' think so. But like I said, you be free to join us. You can Suck-my-man here. What you say, Puckerman? Huh?"

Puck’s eyes flickered back and forth between the group of boys and Kurt for an instant, and then he took another step back toward the door, causing the whole group to start whooping and wolf whistling.

“Aw, po’ bitch!” One of the boys said, reaching down and dragging Kurt to his feet again, easily smacking down his attempts to resist. “Yo’ boyfriend ain’t gonna save ya this time, boo.”

"Puck, please!" Kurt called out, not caring that he sounded desperate. He was desperate. Surely even Noah Puckerman wouldn't leave him to the wrath of a bunch of gang bangers. He was an asshole, but not that much of an asshole. He wasn't Karofsky.

"Puuuck, pleeease," one of the boys imitated in a girlishly high voice. "C'mon, Suck-a-man! He wants you baaaaad."

"Maybe *I* want you bad, bitch. You wanna lick my boots? I'll show you how to fuck-a-man when I shove it up yo' ass!"

Puck's eyes widened and his mouth opened and shut for a moment before he shook his head rapidly, stumbling backward. “I-I... I gotta go. Gotta... go.”

No, no, no. He couldn't have... He wouldn't have... But he did. Kurt blinked tears from his eyes as he watched Puck's back disappear down the hallway, leaving him alone, blood running down his face as he stared up at the hulking boys around him. No...

Oh, God. Kurt was alone. Alone, but not *alone.* He stared up at the boys with wide eyes, his heart pounding as another tear ran down his cheek. He was alone. And there was nothing he could do. He held back a whimper as one of the boys feigned a grab for him, laughing when he flinched. 

Kurt tried to move away, stumbling to the side a little his eyes fell on that vile, wicked, evil bar of soap. Damn soap. Could you kill yourself with a bar of soap? Because if the way that big boy was playing with his dick was any idea of what he had in store for Kurt, death by scentless soap bar might be a good alternative to living.

He could see the obituary now. “Kurt Hummel, 1994-2010. Died by consumption of FDA unauthorized soap in communal prison shower under threat of eternal humiliation and ultimate degradation by way of enormous teenaged gangster’s oversized penis. Survived by his father, Burt Hummel; the bully who landed him in prison, “Big D” Karofsky; and his secret mentor, Lady GaGa. Will be buried in a Porta Potty filled with cherry flavored slushies at a closed ceremony near the WMHS Dumpsters.”

“Yo,” the big boy said as he turned his full attention back to Kurt, reaching out to turn off the tap as he moved closer to the smaller boy, obviously doing his very best to invade his personal space. And succeeding quite well. 

Kurt blushed, his gut twisting in humiliation, as the boy’s now very hard cock brushed his stomach.

“I’m Tiny Tom. That there is Kiwan,” he pointed to the second largest boy, who had very dark skin and dreads down almost to his waist. “The short one’s Gregory, and the Oreo is X Trey.”

“Fuck you, I ain’t no Oreo, man. My daddy was black, just like my mamma!”

“Yo’ mamma is a ho. Who da fuck knows who yo’ daddy is,” Kiwan shot back, looking amused.

Tiny Tom snorted. “Anyway, girlie, my point be that we are your new worst friends.” Tiny Tom smiled again, but this time it was more a baring of teeth than anything else. A baring of gold teeth. This was *not* good. Kurt swallowed hard. Surely they didn't leave the showers unattended for long. Surely a guard would come along. Surely-- 

“Welcome to *my* showers, bitch boy. It is time that *you* met the G Kings.” Without warning Tiny Tom kicked Kurt’s legs out from underneath him, sending the boy toppling to the ground, a movement that placed his face at a very uncomfortable level to Tiny Tom’s *not* very tiny dick. Kurt ducked his head, cheeks flaming. Oh God, oh God, oh God, no. This was not happening. He was somewhere else. This wasn't real--

“Better bow down, cracker,” Extra or X-Ray or whatever his name was said with a loud laugh, making Kurt cringe. “His Highness is here to remind you where yo’ kind belong!”

Kurt whimpered as Tiny Tom reached down and yanked his face up so that his thick, dark cock was leaking right against his cheek. His breath caught as he stared at it with horrified eyes, the tears beginning to pour.

“Please,” he said, hardly aware that he was even speaking as he knelt there on throbbing, scraped knees, doing everything he could *not* to look at what was being shoved right in his face. This couldn’t be real. It couldn’t.

This wasn’t how it was supposed to be. It was supposed to be wonderful. Beautiful. Sweet and loving. With… with Blaine or… or someone he cared about. Not here on his knees, all alone with some disgusting boys he’d never even seen before. “Please, just leave me alone.” The last word turned into a choked sort of sob as he tried to tug his head away from Tom’s firm grip, to no avail.

Laughter seemed to echo all around him. How could they laugh? How could they think that this was funny? He let out a loud whimper as Tiny Tom turned slightly and his cock slapped against Kurt’s cheek.

No, no, no. More tears ran down his face. Why wouldn’t anyone help him? Why was this happening? “Please, please, don’t.” He reached up, trying to push himself away and just found his wrists trapped in Tom’s big hand.

“Sorry, sweetheart,” the boy said cruelly, “but I ain’t lookin’ to let your pretty ass go anytime soon.” He grinned wickedly. “Better get all dem tears out now, lover slut, because by the time we be done? You won’t be able to do nothin’ but whimper like a lil’ girl, yo.”

Kurt let out another sob, squeezing his eyes shut. No, no, no. Please, no, no, no. He couldn’t do this. He couldn’t take it. This couldn’t be happening. Please, please, please—

“What the *fuck* do you sons of bitches think ya’ll are doin’?”

Kurt started slightly at the sound of the low, furious voice. The very *familiar* low, furious voice. His heart seemed to stop for a moment as he recognized that sneering growl.

Just when he’d thought things couldn’t get any worse. Of course, Karofsky had just threatened to kill him, not to rape him, and if it came down to death by Karofsky or rape by Tiny Tom, he might just take the one way ticket to six feet under before he'd do anything with this... this thing he'd shoved into his face.

The distraction was enough, at least, for Tiny Tom to release Kurt’s arms and move a few feet away, allowing the smaller boy to scurry back a few inches before Kiwan and Extra Trace cut him off. He swallowed hard and wrapped his arms around his legs as Karofsky stared down Tiny Tom. What was he doing? Was he actually going to try and help Kurt? For God’s sake, his face was still bruised and mottled from where Kurt had beaten him.

Karofsky was big, but not as big as Tiny Tom, even if the Gangsta King or whatever didn’t have his gang-mates here. And there was no reason for him to want to help the homo he’d hated even before he’d broken his nose and knocked out his tooth. There was no way this was going to get better. Karofsky being here could only make it worse. Hell, it was the chance he’d been waiting for. He could do anything to Kurt, *anything*, and no one would stop it.

Kurt let out another sob and Karofsky shot him an odd look. He dropped his eyes, shivering, as he tried to avoid that gaze. There was no point in trying to figure out Karofsky’s mind. Who the hell knew what boy ever thought? He was hard to read on a normal day, much less when his entire face was various shades of black and blue and he looked like he would gladly pick up anyone who glanced at him wrong and break them in half.

Not that he didn’t look like he’d break you in half most of the time. And somehow the fact that *everybody* involved in this little mess was butt naked only made it all the more frightening, despite the fact that it really should have been pretty ridiculous. Maybe someday he’d look back on this and laugh at the pure absurdity.

Kiwan yanked at his dick, smirking cruelly.

No. Absurd was overrated. This was just plain terrifying.

“Listen here you nigger bastards,” Karofsky said harshly, making Kurt wince at the use of the N-word, though it didn’t seem to faze all the black guys in the least. Maybe he *was* a little too suburb for the jailhouse rock. “I said, what the *fuck* do you think you be *doing*?!”

Tiny Tom snarled. “This ain’t none o’ your business, you bootlickin’ fag biker bitch. Go suck Daddy’s dick and get the hell away from my pickings!” His pickings. Ha.

“Oh, go pick cotton, negro. He’s mine, you sonofabitch, and you better stay da fuck away from him!”

“He yours, huh? Since when you be collecting girls? If he’s yo’s, then prove it!” His lip turned up and his fists clenched. “Otherwise I suggest you be getting the fuck outta here before I break yo’ faggot biker neck!” 

Prove it? Prove what? What the hell were they even talking about? Kurt wiped at the snot running down his face.

“Fuck you, Thomas Jenkins! I don’t gotta prove shit to you! I say he’s mine, then he’s mine!” Karofsky’s eyes flashed and he stepped up so that he was barely an inch from Tiny Tom’s face. Well, if you didn't count the fact that he was at least three inches shorter, anyway.

“You don’t prove it, you lose it! And the bitch is mine!” Tiny Tom laughed coldly. “If this one’s such a prize then she might be worth fighting fo’. My sister could use a new girl.”

“Your sister ain’t gonna lay a fuckin’ hand on that one, ‘cause that one is mine! You want me to prove it? Fine! I fucking well will!”

Prove what? What was he--oh shit. Kurt flinched as Kiwan grabbed his arm, apparently unconcerned with the confrontation going on between his buddy and Karofsky, and yanked him up to his feet, using his weight to manhandle him up against the wall, his dick pressing against Kurt’s thigh. Kurt sobbed again.

“Hey, pretty girl, how ‘bout you and me get it o—”

The weight against him was suddenly gone as Karofsky reached out and shoved the other boy away, slamming a big fist hard into his gut as he did so, sending Kiwan tumbling to the ground.

“SHIT!” The big black boy made a terrifying face as he stood back up that Karofsky returned with vigor, making Kurt's stomach clench in fear.

Kurt slipped back down to the floor, pulling his knees back up to his chest, like they were some kind of armor that could actually protect him, as the world moved around him, once again moving along slowly, slowly, leaving Kurt to wonder idly if being in shock twice in as many days was particularly healthy. He seriously doubted that it was recommended by doctors everywhere. But it sure was a hell of a lot easier than actually having to feel what was going on. The numbness was… nice.

He blinked slowly as Karofsky’s arms flexed in slow motion, sending one of the Gangsta Kings--Gregory?--flying to the floor as both of the druggie white boys fled the showers for the safety of their cells. Like some sort of dance, Tiny Tom and Kiwan tried to grab Karofsky’s arms but were foiled when his knee landed hard into Tom’s groin and his elbow made contact with Kiwan’s face.

Kurt blinked as Karofsky began to move so, so slowly toward him. He really should move. That look on Karofsky’s face couldn’t be good. It was like some twisted mix of deepest disgust and utter fury. He should run, hide, anything… but for some reason even though he could think just fine, his body was moving just like Karofsky’s—slowly. So slowly.

And then he was rising, Karofsky’s fingers digging into his skin, and he was turning, then slamming, face first, into the cement wall. And he tried to strike out but it was so, so hard because he was so, so tired and somehow he just knew that if he actually did manage to strike out then all the calm, slow dullness would be gone and the panicked tears would be back.

The concrete was grey and rough and it scratched the delicate skin of his cheek as Kurt slowly turned his head as much as he could, watching as Tiny Tom climbed to his feet, a pissed off look on his face, then his view was blocked by Karofsky’s shoulder as he leaned even harder against Kurt, his broad width shielding everything from Kurt’s sight.

A tear trickled down Kurt’s cheek, though he was numb enough at the moment that he wasn’t really sure why, and it seemed to take a thousand years for Karofsky’s big fingers to camp down on Kurt’s small arms, leaving him totally immobile as he tugged them behind the smaller boy’s back, wrapping a big fist around his wrists, just like Tiny Tom had done. Only this time he wasn’t on the floor, trying to escape, he was pressed against the wall and there *was* no escape.

Kurt sort of felt like maybe he was going to vomit. That had seemed to freak people out when he’d done it in the principal’s office. Maybe if he vomited it would gross everyone out and they’d leave him alone. Karofsky made a soft grunting sound as his… down there parts… began to harden, pressing firmly against Kurt’s left buttock.

Another sob erupted from his already hoarse throat. Was it better to be raped by someone you knew and hated than by a total stranger? Talk about a loaded question. Was there even an answer to that?

This wasn’t happening. It couldn’t be happening. This was just some horrible nightmare he was caught in. It was a dream, and you could control your dreams. If he just closed his eyes and willed it away, it would all be gone. Surely.

Tears leaked from between Kurt’s lashes as he squeezed his eyes shut. He didn’t much believe in God, but if there was ever a time to pray, it was now. Please, please, please let it all be a dream.

Karofsky’s knee slipped between Kurt’s legs, stroking him softly with his thigh. Kurt whimpered, flushing with humiliation as he felt himself harden slightly. Not a dream. Not even a nightmare. Real. And if there was ever a time to hate teenage hormones, it was *now.* Shame welled within him as his body reacted to the soft touches of Karofsky’s knee against his cock.

It was real. It was all real. Oh, God. This was bad enough. What would happen now? Would he shove into him? Would it hurt? He was already crying so hard that he didn’t think any more tears could come. But who knew? He’d never done this before. Oh, God, how could this be real?

With that thought the precious dullness was stripped away completely as the panic rose like a monsoon, the tidal waves of fear flowing from his eyes, down his cheeks. The taste of snot and tears filled his mouth and his chest felt like it was being torn apart with despair. How could this happen? Oh, God, no.

The steady pulsing of Karofsky’s cock against him became rougher and faster as the bigger boy slowly bent his head down until his lips brushed the edge of Kurt’s ear.

“I… I wish that I…” He paused, swallowing deeply, before he continued. “I wish that I would tell you that you’ll thank me for this later,” Karofsky whispered, a thick hoarseness to his voice that made Kurt shiver. “But you won’t. You…” Another pause. “You’ll remember this for the rest of your life. And you’ll probably hate me for it. Should hate me for it.”

He made a strange choking noise. “A year, *ten* years from now, this will probably be the memory that wakes you up in the middle of the night.” His voice was tight and he shook his head softly, causing Kurt to flinch when they bumped cheeks.

“I know. I understand. I know you probably don’t believe that I understand. And… I am sorry, Hummel. Even homos don’t deserve this shit. But it’s the only way. If Tom wants you, it’s the only way. Especially if he wants you for his sister. So it’s better than the alternative. Which I know you think is a lie. But it’s true, Fancy. I… I wouldn’t lie to you.”

Fuck him. Fuck him all the way to hell. Kurt gritted his teeth and tried to pull away but Karofsky’s weight held him trapped. Fine. If the bastard wouldn’t let him go, then let him hear what Kurt thought of his fucking worthless apologies and stupid fucking bullshit. “F-fuck you,” he said, sobs slurring the words slightly. “Fuck you, Karofsky. I hope you burn.”

For a moment there was just silence as Karofsky continued to hump at his leg, still holding Kurt’s arms captive behind his back, then there was a soft pressure on the top of Kurt’s head, causing him to shudder. …Had Karofsky… had Karofsky just kissed him?

A kiss. All this hell came back to a kiss. None of this would ever have happened if he'd just never been kissed.

Kurt let out a sob.

“‘M sorry, Fancy,” Karofsky said, almost too quiet to be heard, then he spoke up louder, his hips grinding as harshly as ever. “This bitch is *mine*, Thomas,” Karofsky practically growled, causing Kurt to whimper a little as the bigger boy slapped a big palm down on the concrete, his upper body turning slightly to glare at the boys behind him. “MINE! So you motherfuckers just stay the hell away from what’s mine! You got that?”

His hips rubbed harder against Kurt and he squeezed his eyes shut as the bigger boy came closer to his crevice between his cheeks, waiting for the feeling of invasion, waiting to feel him pressing in, but Karofsky just shifted slightly and continued to hump Kurt’s butt cheek. “Stay. The fuck… away… from… what’s… MINE!” He let out a loud moan and Kurt tried futilely to escape, the concrete scraping his skin as he wriggled a little frantically, trying to escape the feel of the other boy’s cock against him.

Karofsky released his wrists abruptly but, before Kurt could move, he wrapped both of his big arms around him, his fingertips tracing along Kurt’s nipples, making the smaller boy’s cock jump again and his lips turn up in self-disgust, tears falling harder than ever.

Helpless. Alone. Lost. He hadn’t felt this way since the day he had stood there before his mommy’s grave, tears trickling down his little boy cheeks. And there was no daddy here to help him through it now.

“Yo, D,” Tiny Tom said, remarkably casually considering the fact he was watching Karofsky rape someone, just leaning against the wall next to them like he didn't have a care in the fucking world. Karofsky tilted away from the black boy, dropping one of his big hands from Kurt’s chest down to his side, as if to cover himself from the other boy’s eyes.

Kurt sniffled. Why the fuck was he bothering to hide? Surely the Guy Code was no longer in effect. If he was so embarrassed then how could he do this to someone to begin with? Why? Why would he do this?!

“I didn’t know you were into fucking queens.”

“He’s mine, Tommy. So stay… the hell… oh GOD.” Karofsky leaned harder against Kurt, a little moan escaping his lips. “You can stay the hell away from him, Tom, or I swear to the gods o’ leather that every Run Boy in this place will be after your hide. And I’ll tell the Double AM you try and steal my girl. Then you’ll have the Aryans after you too, negro. You get me?”

Tiny Tom laughed, shaking his head. “Yeah, yeah, yeah. Whateva’. Nobody said you had no claim, man. You know I ain’t got no problem with da Run Boys. Take the suburb bitch if ya want her so bad. You know I just like to break ‘em.” He laughed and reached out, grabbing Kurt by the chin and twisting his face around until he could stare straight into his eyes, holding the smaller boy’s head at an odd angle.

“You get off sucking Big D’s dick, that’s cool with me. But you better watch out, you better not cry, you better not pout, ‘cause if you fuck it up with big boy here, the Gangsta Kings will be comin’ to town. My sista would *really* like to have you for her collection, pretty boy.” With those words he released Kurt’s head and took off toward his boys, laughing. “Have fun, D.”

Karofsky gave one more hard thrust, then sort of collapsed onto Kurt with a loud grunt, leaving something warm and sticky oozing down the boy’s butt.

Oh God, oh God, oh God, oh God. No, no, no, no…

Finally the weight that had held him captive was lifted and Kurt let out a choked sob, wrapping his arms tightly around himself even as he leaned hard against the wall, too horrified and exhausted to even stand straight. He stared blindly at nothing as the tears ran.

Where was he? Why was he here? What had happened? Oh God…

Finally, after what seemed like forever, but couldn’t have been more than a few seconds, the world began to sharpen again. The Gangsta Kings were making their way out of the shower and Karofsky was standing off to one side, looking uncomfortable as he wiped his own cum onto the concrete wall. Kurt flinched. Had to get away. Had to escape. Had to—

He let out a sob and tried to make a sudden sprint for the shower doors but was quickly headed off as Karofsky reached out and grabbed his arm, yanking him back and holding him tight against his body as he began to struggle.

“Let me go!” Kurt shouted, clawing at the arms holding him prisoner. “LET ME GO!”

“Fine!” Karofsky snapped. “But for God’s sake, just go back to the fucking cell, homo! And stay there until I come and get you. Before you fuck anything else up!”

He shoved him away and Kurt ran.

It was too bad that the pain could always keep up.


	5. Blaming the Soap

Dave studied the cards in his hand. If he switched the Four of Hearts for the Queen of Spades in his boot then he’d have a royal flush. But he’d already won four out of five hands and, though Jake and Trinity definitely fell well under the label ‘dumb as bricks,’ if he got too many rockin’ hands even the numbskulls might get suspicious…

“Karofsky!”

Dave glanced subtly around the table. Trin was biting his lip, looking worried, which meant he had a good hand. Or what he thought was a good hand. Sometimes he forgot whether it was better to have three of a kind or a pair. And Jake was attempting, and mostly failing at, a straight poker face. He just kind of looked like he had indigestion, which meant he had a shit hand. He only remembered to try for a poker face when he was losing.

“Karofsky!” Dave jumped slightly as his chair shook and he jerked around to glare at Puckerman. Seriously, if the little bastard didn’t leave him the fuck alone, he was gonna do a hell of a lot more than just rip out the schmuck’s nipple ring.

God, he wished he’d been there to see *that*. He’d heard the tale from four different Gangsta Kings and they all ended with Puckerman curled up in a fetal position, rocking back and forth while he cried for his mommy and said prayers to Moses.

“What is it, Suck-a-man?” Dave snapped as he dropped his hand to the table and pushed back his chair. “I fold.” He grabbed the candy bars and condoms he’d won off the table and stuffed them into his pockets.

“It’s Kurt. You gotta help him, man. I mean, I know you hate him, but you gotta help him!”

Dave rolled his eyes. Of course the homo was in trouble already. And of course the suburb bitches would expect him to fix it.

“Look, I’m sorry if the princess doesn’t think he’s being worshipped properly or whatever. If he doesn’t wanna get thrown down the stairs by a bunch of Mexicans who like to pretend their dicks are bigger than they really are, well, I suggest he stay on the first damn floor.”

Puck shook his head, looking annoyed. “No, man—the black dudes have him cornered in the shower. The real big one! Y’know, the one that’s fatter than you?”

The shower? What the hell was Fancy doing in the shower at this time of the day? They hadn’t even had fucking dinner yet. There was a *reason* that people who just wanted to *wash* all went to the shower at the same damn time. Dammit! “Tiny Tom’s got him?”

Puck shrugged. “I dunno his name, man.”

Dave glared at him. “Why the hell did bitch boy go to the shower at this time of day? And how the hell do you know that he went?!”

Puckerman’s face turned red and Dave forcibly wrestled down the urge to put his fist in the face of that whiny, cowardly little traitor. He could beat Puckerman senseless later. Right now he had a princess to rescue. Dammit!

Dave took off toward the showers, then paused to grab Puckerman by the collar as he started to follow, shoving him hard enough that he stumbled back several paces. “You stay here, asshole! I don’t want *nobody* thinking I’m associating with you, you spineless pussy!”

“Fuck you, Karof—” Puck toppled backward with a yelp, hands covering his now bleeding face. Dave smiled. He really should punch Puckerman more often. That was almost as satisfying as shoving the pretty boy into the lockers.

Dave yanked his shirt over his head as he took off down the hallway toward the Cellblock A showers. Damn, damn, damn the pretty boy and his endless bathing rituals! It had been bad enough at McKinley when he’d always tried to talk about the latest Britney Spears gossip in the shower and give all the guys soap that smelled like flowers. Now he had to go into the fucking communal shower in *lockup* at a time when *nobody* was there to watch his back? Why? So he could moisturize his balls or something?

Fucking faggot! So, so, *so* stupid! He should just let the little bitch get what was coming to him. He should just let Tiny Tom—

He cut that thought off abruptly as a slightly sick feeling rose in his stomach. He really didn’t want the image of Tiny Tom doing *that* with *anyone* stuck in his head, much less with *his* Fancy. Or, uh, the fancy… kid. Yeah. Whatever.

Dave skidded to a stop before the shower rooms, yanking off the combat boots he’d gotten from one of his buddies in the Run Boys and dropping his pants unceremoniously, tossing all his clothing in the general direction of the guard, who handed him a towel in return and buzzed him through with a bored look on his face.

Dammit, Fancy!

“Better get all dem tears out now, lover slut, because by the time we be done? You won’t be able to do nothin’ but whimper like a lil’ girl, yo.”

Dave grimaced as he stepped into the showers. Two little whore boys were gathered to one side, watching and giggling as four of the G Kings made a little half circle around Kurt, the enormous “Tiny” Tom leading the pack with all of his three hundred and twenty pounds of Big and Tall as he pushed the smaller boy into the wall.

Of course it would be the biggest, meanest G King who was fucking with homo boy. Not that Dave was all that surprised. After all, fucking with people was what Tiny Tom did best. The dude was *brutal* in a b-ball game. Once he’d broken Dave’s pinkie finger so bad that it just kinda flopped around.

Dave’s eyes narrowed as he watched the boy jerk himself off, that fat face laughing at the pretty boy's tears. Not that Dave gave a fuck about the faggot boy, really. He should really just let Tiny Tom do his thing. Maybe that would teach Fancy that being a queer wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. 

No, he didn't care about the fag. It’s just that *he* wanted to be the one to crush that pretty face in for telling Hudson about… that. Watch the homo blood run. Yeah. Totally.

...But somehow he just didn’t want Kurt’s first time to be in a communal shower with a bunch of gang bangers trading his ass for soda pop and smack. Even the faggot didn’t deserve *that.* Didn’t deserve to have some motherfucker force him down on his knees and shove his dick in that sweet mouth. The kid would be better off dead.

Of course, if Dave really believed that then he’d have offed himself years ago. But he still wasn’t a faggot.

Fuck this. Fancy was *his* to mess with and goddamn Tiny Tom and his loser crew had no right to shove the bitch around. This was *not* cool.

“What the fuck do you sons of bitches think ya’ll are doing?” Dave bellowed as he stepped forward, resisting the urge to roll his eyes as Kurt’s face somehow went from ‘As Terrified As Possible’ to ‘Even More Terrified Than As Terrified As Possible,’ the tears falling harder. 

Really, did the kid think there was actually a worse situation than he was already in? Adding one more dude to the mix might not make it better, but it couldn’t make it much worse. Not when you had Tiny Tom there.

Dave took a deep breath, trying to come up with some sort of plan for getting them out of that damn shower. This whole thing was not a good idea. Dave was on okay terms with Tom, but showing up with no backup in the damn shower to take on Tom and three of his thugs, just to save the skin of some flaunting little homo? What the fuck was wrong with him? This was not the sort of shit he did. He was smarter than that.

Kiwan was a real sonofabitch and though Dave didn’t recognize the other two, if they ran with Tiny Tom then they were hardcore, that was for sure. He couldn’t fight them all and win, especially with Tom throwing around his weight.

This should never have happened to Hummel. He didn’t belong in a place like this. He shouldn’t have been in that shower to begin with. Fuck that stupid judge for handing out the same sentences to prissy little pretty boys as thugs like him.

“Listen here you nigger bastards,” Karofsky snapped. “I said, what the *fuck* do you think you be *doing*?!”

Tiny Tom sneered. “This ain’t none o’ your business, you bootlickin’ fag biker bitch. Go suck Daddy’s dick and get the hell away from my pickings!” His pickings. Ha.

“Oh, go pick cotton, negro. He’s mine, you sonofabitch, and you better stay da fuck away from him!”

“He yours, huh? Since when you be collecting girls? If he’s yo’s, then prove it!” Tiny Tom punched a fist into his palm, glaring. “Otherwise I suggest you be getting the fuck outta here before I break yo’ faggot biker neck!”

...Prove it? Oh, hell no. No, no, no. The little princess would never survive it. A sick feeling rose in Dave’s gut as he eyed that teary, frightened face. Yeah, he could prove it. Prove it to fucking everyone. But if he did, the little fag would remember it forever. His body would be safe, but his heart… Hearts were another story. Dave knew how to keep a body safe. A heart... not really his forte.

 

 

“I… I don’t want to…”

A soft chuckle. “I know. But it will be okay. We’re just… helping each other out, you know? It’s cold out here, Dave. You need a coat. And I bet you’re hungry, too.”

The boy dropped his eyes, rubbing at his bare arms as breath puffed from his lips in cold little clouds of frost. “I… I don’t know how.”

“I’ll show you. I promise, it won’t be bad. You help me and I’ll help you. Just a fair trade.” A smile crossed his lips. “I’ll take you to the IHOP on Main and you can get whatever you want. And then we’ll go by Goodwill and get you a coat. A nice, warm winter coat. And all you have to do is help me... feel good.”

Dave shivered again and licked his lips nervously. He was so hungry. So, so hungry. It had only been days, but it seemed like years. He blinked back the tears welling up in his eyes. “W-will it hurt?”

The man smiled down at him again then reached out, wrapping an arm around his shoulders. “No, it won’t hurt. Well, maybe just a *little*, but we’ll go slow and it will be worth it in the end. I promise it will be worth it.”

Dave nodded and as the stranger’s lips pressed against his, he felt a warmth inside begin to turn cold. But you couldn't die from a cold heart. A cold wind was another story all together.

 

 

 

“Fuck you, Thomas Jenkins!” Dave snarled, getting up in Tom’s face. “I don’t gotta prove shit to you! I say he’s mine, then he’s mine!”

Please, please, please don’t call that bluff…

“You don’t prove it, you lose it! And the bitch is mine!”

Of course he called his bluff. It was Tiny fucking Tom. So called for his tiny goddamn heart, the sadistic motherfucker.

“If this one’s such a prize then she might be worth fighting fo’. My sister could use a new girl.”

Oh, HELL no was Dave gonna let Tom turn Fancy into another little drug slut. “Your sister ain’t gonna lay a fuckin’ hand on that one, ‘cause that one is mine! You want me to prove it?” No, no, no, no, no… “Fine! I fucking well will!”

A whimpering sound came from Kurt’s direction and Dave jerked his head toward him, snarling when he saw Kiwan pressing against the boy, angling his cock toward him. The disgusting bastard! He grabbed Kiwan and shoved him away, slamming a fist into his gut hard enough to send him flying to the ground.

Another little cry came from Fancy’s general direction but Dave didn’t pause to look. If there was one thing he’d learned from growing up with his Pops, it was how to avoid the punches. He ducked as Tom and one of the other boys tried to grab his arms, sending his knee hard into Tiny Tom’s groin as he put an elbow in the other guy’s face.

Take that you gangsta assholes.

Dave glanced over at Pretty Boy, wincing at the dull-eyed look on his face. His eyes were dilated and his mouth was opening and shutting very slowly, as if he was trying to speak and just not quite succeeding. Shock, probably.

But if being threatened with a gang bang in the shower was enough to put the kid into shock, he really needed to work on his street skills. That was not how you survived. Not that Kurt Hummel had *any* street skills. There was no way that boy would survive on his own, especially not if Tiny Tom had decided to target him.

 

Tiny Tom glared furiously up at him, breathing heavily, and Dave tried not to flinch. He knew that look. He had better fucking well prove that Fancy was his or there would be a death sentence on the little queen’s head—and maybe on Dave’s, too, just for the hell of it.

Not that the G Kings would actually kill him. The other Run Boys would back him up. But Kurt… he didn’t have a crew to back him up. He had no one. Dave could leave right now. He could leave and all his worries would be over. With the way Tom was glaring at him, Fancy wouldn’t even be recognizable by the time the G Kings were through, and Dave would have had nothing to do with it.

Except for being the one who drove Tom to kill him.

But if he didn't leave... Oh, God, please, no.

Dave swallowed down the sick feeling in his throat. This was wrong. This was what happened to other kids, to losers like him. The kind of street shit that no one wanted. Not to little princesses with designer socks and a strange obsession with movies where people burst into song or whatever.

It wasn’t fair. Fancy was a rich kid. This shouldn’t be happening. This wasn’t right. There would be tears, and nightmares, and probably, like, years of therapy or something. This kind of shit happened to tough boys like Dave, not breakable little dolls like Kurt Hummel who cried ‘cause they got kissed in a locker room.

What the fuck could he even tell him? That it was for his own good? That it was the only way? That he’d thank him for it later? Screw that. He wouldn’t bullshit Fancy, not like a billion men had bullshitted *him* on how it wouldn’t hurt, how it would all be okay, how it would be worth it in the end.

Fuck *that*.

Dave reached down and grabbed Kurt by the shoulders, hauling the small boy to his feet, then flipping him around before he had time to even catch his balance so that his chest was pressed up against the wall. He grabbed both of those tiny wrists in one big hand, holding them behind the boy’s back, using his weight to stave off any struggles.

He’d make it look good for Tiny Tom, but he wouldn’t ruin Fancy forever. He was broad enough that the gangsta bastard wouldn’t be able to see around him, and he wouldn’t steal everything from the little queen. Pretty boy wanted to be a faggot? Fine, let him be a faggot. Dave wouldn’t ruin it all for him, no matter how fucking sick he thought it was. 

He would probably be ruined soon enough if his own experience was any example. He'd find out that getting fucked up the ass wasn't all it was cut out to be. And Dave would be ruining enough just doing this. Maybe he wouldn’t be popping his cherry--if he was even a virgin--but the little bitch had practically had a breakdown after that fucking kiss, whoever started it. God only knew what this shit would do to his innocent little heart.

Make it as hard as Dave’s, maybe.

Dave took a deep breath and adjusted his weight slightly to one side as he began to thrust against Kurt, angling himself so that he was just rutting against the other boy’s butt cheek. And if it looked like a hell of a lot more to Tiny Tom, all the better.

Dave’s breath grew harsher as he continued to move his hips, trying to ignore the sobbing noises coming from Kurt. He blinked rapidly, squeezing his eyes a little. They were watering. Dammit, he must have gotten fucking soap in them or something.

 

 

“Pops, please, I’m tired,” Dave said groggily, burying his face in the pillow. Why the hell couldn't he just disappear into the filthy mattress? He'd feel a lot better. God, his ass was sore.

“Hey, I feed and clothe you outta my own fuckin’ pocket, boy! Rent’s due and I ain’t got enough cash. You can do one more.”

Dave lifted his head, glaring. “I gave you the damn rent money! You just went and spent it on booze!” He winced at the hard smack to the back of the head that followed.

“Watch your fuckin’ mouth, boy! I am yo’ father! And you will fuckin’ well do what I say or you can get the hell outta my house!” He reached out and slapped at Dave’s bare ass, laughing at the pained look on his son’s face. “Aw, c’mon. Bet you like it deep down, faggot. Now let’s go. One more and you can go to sleep.”

“But Pops, school starts in three hours.”

He snorted. “Don’t know why the fuck you bother going to school. I think we all know what you’re good for. I’ll go get your next one.”

“Yes, Pops,” Dave said quietly as the door shut behind his father. He rubbed at his eyes, then looked at his hand in surprise. God, he really *must* be tired. His eyes were watering.

 

 

Dave stared dully at the wall, trying to avoid looking down and seeing Fancy’s tears. Why the fuck did he even care? It was just a little faggot, and if there was one thing that Dave hated, it was faggots. Just a prancing little homo. He should be happy to see tears running down those pretty cheeks. Hell, he’d had plenty of fun making the bitch cry before, just by shoving him into lockers.

Of course, this was an entirely different kind of shoving and not the sort that Dave took part in. Ever. He had never gone out and just fucked someone for the hell of it, and he never planned to. Screw whatever sick ideas the prancing little slut had been slipping into his mind lately. It didn’t mean he had to act on them. And this… this was just doing what had to be done. And if Dave was good at one thing, it was doing what had to be done.

But, for some reason, that didn’t calm the sick feeling in his gut. And it sure as hell didn’t make the little whimpers and sobs coming from the delicate body beneath him any easier to swallow. Had *he* ever sounded like that?

Dave didn’t think so. Not even his first time. Was this really Fancy’s first time? He hoped not, but he thought, just from the way the homo had acted about that kiss, that it probably was. Would this count as a first time? They weren’t even having real sex. So surely it didn’t count as a first time. Dave didn’t want to be anyone’s first time. Especially not Fancy’s.

Hell, half the time he laid in bed wishing *he’d* never had a first time.

Kurt would hate him forever for this. Not, of course, that it mattered. Since he hated Kurt. And so Kurt hating him just made sense. Total sense. Absolute sense.

He could use some Absolut, of the vodka sense right now.

Kurt began to struggle again as Dave’s thrusts became more vigorous and he leaned harder against the small body, stilling him. Dave swallowed hard, bowing his head as the shame washed through him. He had done a lot of bad things, but he had never raped anyone before. Did this count? How could it *not* count?

If Kurt came after him with a knife in the dark tonight, Dave wasn’t sure that he’d even try to stop him.

Maybe if he just closed his eyes he could pretend he was alone in his room and that this was just some Stephen King version of a wet dream. A wet nightmare. Maybe if he closed his eyes tight then he could will it all away. There would be no struggling boy beneath him, no hard cock pressing against a tight butt cheek as a group of whooping assholes watched from behind and made crude comments that Dave was too out of his fucking head to even try and decipher.

Why? Why couldn't anything in his life be good? What had he done? What could he have done different? Why couldn't he just be one of those happy people? What had he done to deserve it?

 

Dave had always believed in God—it was the idea of a *loving* God that he’d never quite grasped. He could see God flooding the earth and killing the Egyptians’ children and tearing up Sodom ‘cause He didn’t like their party games. But a loving God? 

Every Christmas they’d talk about how God was his Father and, in his experience of dads, that fell right into his idea of a pissed off God. He loved his Pops but he was pretty sure that his father didn’t give a fuck about him. The loving Father God. Ha. That was a laugh. But if there was ever a time to pray for God to be loving, it was then. If He would just answer one prayer, then maybe Dave could believe. Just please, please, please, let it all be a dream.

Dave’s cock began to leak from the tip and, without even thinking about it, he slipped a knee between Fancy’s thighs, brushing against the other boy’s cock. Kurt whimpered, almost desperately, and Dave blushed as he realized what he was doing, quickly pulling back his leg. Definitely not a dream. Not even a nightmare. Real. Definitely, absolutely real.

The pretty boy began to sob full out, no pause between the choking, heaving sounds, and once again Dave felt his eyes sting and water. He hadn’t even brought his soap in with him, dammit! It must have rubbed off of Kurt. No doubt the princess had washed every inch of himself a thousand times.

Why else would his eyes be watering?

Dave bent his head down again, swallowing hard as he tried to find his voice. He had to say something. He had to try and explain. He had to show the homo that this wasn’t what he’d wanted. That it wasn’t what he’d want for anyone. That this was everything he hated. That vomit was threatening to spill up right now and make Dave look as pitiful as the little bitch had when he’d puked in his scarf. He had to say *something*. But what, *what* to say?

“I…” He paused, taking a deep breath. He should lie. He should lie like every man he’d ever known had. He should tell him that it would all work out. That it would all be okay. That it wouldn’t hurt—except in the place where wounds lasted the longest.

But if there was one thing that Kurt Hummel had never been, it was a liar. He was brave like that. Honest and true. When the other kids had run away from Dave in the hall, Fancy had never been afraid to get up in his face and tell him what a useless piece of shit he was. He said what he meant, whether it was to the school bully or to his own father. He didn’t deserve to be lied to.

“I wish that I…” Dave paused, swallowing deeply. “I wish that I could tell you that you’ll thank me for this later,” Dave winced slightly as he felt the boy shiver beneath him. He took another deep breath and tried to steel himself, his voice coming out soft and hoarse. “But you won’t. You… you’ll remember this for the rest of your life.”

Dave had.

“And you’ll probably hate me for it.”

Dave hadn’t, but he was fucked up like that. What kind of person loved the man who hurt them? Not a brave person like Kurt.

“You should hate me for it.”

Everyone should hate him. He was as sick as any of them. A sob rose in his throat and he choked it back. Fuck that. He did not *cry*.

“A year, *ten* years from now, this will probably be the memory that wakes you up in the middle of the night.”

Dave gritted his teeth as a vision of a thousand terrible dreams, or maybe just a thousand terrible memories—they became kind of hard to discern after awhile—rushed through his mind. His face bumped Kurt’s and he felt the smaller boy flinch.

“I know. I understand.”

God, he understood. And yet his hips continued to thrust.

“I know that you probably don’t believe that I understand. And… I am sorry, Hummel.”

And he was. Which was impressive because he wasn’t sorry for much. But there was just something about Fancy, despite his slutty little outfits and prissy little looks…

“Even homos don’t deserve this shit.”

That was true. No one like Fancy deserved this shit. Kids like him shouldn’t even end up in places like this.

“But it’s the only way. If Tom wants you, it’s the only way. Especially if he wants you for his sister. So it’s better than the alternative.”

And it was. It so was. But Dave knew that the princess would never really understand that. He thought he knew what the worst that could happen was, and this was it, so it couldn’t actually be the *good* road. But Dave knew better. He knew that it could be so much worse, and he could leave Fancy there to learn it for himself, just like Dave had learned it in his father’s bottle filled bedroom and out on the streets as a little kid.

But fuck that. Let Fancy hate him. He hated Fancy, so it all worked out. It was better that way. The princess could be safe that way.

“Which I know you think is a lie. But it’s true, Fancy. I… I wouldn’t lie to you.” 

Not that it mattered. He would hate him no matter what.

“F-fuck you,” came Kurt’s tiny, sob-filled voice as he turned his face to look at Dave, eyes red and tears still trailing down his cheeks. “Fuck you, Karofsky. I hope you burn.”

For a flash of a second Dave thought that Tom had shoved a knife into his ribs, then he realized suddenly that it was just the pain in his heart. He should really recognize the difference by now. But it was amazing how similar a blade and a word could be. Only the words scarred worse, no matter how you wrote off the tears.

Damn this bitch, damn the cops, damn his social worker, damn Puckerman, damn Hudson, damn that judge, damn *everyone* who had decided to take Mary Poppins and stick her in a place where you needed a hell of a lot more than a pretty voice and a magical umbrella to survive.

Dammit!

Dave tilted his head forward and planted a gentle kiss on top of Kurt’s head. To, uh, wipe the soap off of his lips. Or something. Yeah. “‘M sorry, Fancy,” he murmured, probably too quiet for the boy to even hear over his sobbing, then he began to thrust harder than ever, his heart speeding up as the pressure in his cock began to build.

“This bitch is *mine*, Thomas,” Dave snapped, turning his attention back to Tiny Tom. “MINE! So you motherfuckers just stay the hell away from what’s mine! You got that?”

Oh, God, that felt good. It shouldn't feel good, not what he was doing, but oh, it *did.* He began to rub harder against the boy, then winced slightly as he began to slip between his butt cheeks. Uh-uh. Hell, no. Who the fuck knew where the pretty boy had been. Oh, screw that. Who the fuck knew where *Dave* had been? *He* didn’t remember half the damn time. Dave shifted his stance, rutting against the boy’s ass cheek again. “Stay. The fuck… away… from… what’s… MINE!”

He let out a loud moan, sweat trickling down his face. Oh, God, yeeeesss. Kurt began to wiggle again and Dave resisted the urge to just slam him so hard against the wall that he’d have to peel him off, instead releasing the boy’s wrists and wrapping his big arms around that small, pale chest, running his fingers along those tight little nipples… Oh, GOD…

More tears fell down Kurt’s cheeks and Dave stared at them, breath coming faster. What did it feel like to be able to cry? Was it a release. A release… like… this? What would it *be* like, just to cry? Because if there was ever a time that he felt like crying, it was now.

Dave had thought he’d known what it felt like to be helpless, to be used by others and not able to do a fucking thing to stop it. But this was worse. A thousand times worse. Because he could stop it. But if he did stop it, they would rip the little princess apart, and maybe Dave, too. But Dave could survive it. He knew how to separate himself from the pain. He knew how to fight the Danger. He wasn’t sure that a person like Kurt could do that. He cared too much, about everything. About everyone.

“Yo, D.”

Dave started slightly as Tiny Tom’s voice came from beside him, causing him to blink in confusion. When had Tom moved? What was he do--Oh, GOD… Dave let out another moan. Needed to cum… needed… but wait… Tom… Tom had to think…that they were fucking… yeah… Dave shifted his hips a little to block Tom’s view of what they were doing, sliding one hand down as subtly as possible to add to the coverage. Better Tommy think he was fucking the little bitch's brains out. If he knew he was just messing around then he might try for the score himself. Tom was sadistic like that.

“I didn’t know you were into fucking queens.”

Dave’s brow furrowed as he felt the rapid pressure rising between his legs and he dug his finger’s into Fancy’s arms as he tried to hold off the pleasure for just another minute… oh, God… “He’s mine, Tommy. So stay… the hell… oh GOD.”

Dave leaned into Kurt harder, his arms trembling and his hips thrusting practically of their own accord.

“Y-You can stay the hell away from him, T-Tom, or I swear to the gods o’ l-leather that every R-Run Boy in this place will be after your h-hide.” Oh, GOD he wanted to cum… “And I’ll tell the Double AM you try and... and steal my girl. Then you’ll have the Aryans after you too, n-negro.”

Threaten. He could do that while cumming. Threats didn’t take much thought. Couple of low shots, some racist bullshit, and—oh God. “You get me?” He better get him ‘cause Dave wasn’t up to talking no more.

Tiny Tom laughed. “Yeah, yeah, yeah. Whateva’. Nobody said you had no claim, man. You know I ain’t got no problem with da Run Boys. Take the suburb bitch if ya want her so bad. You know I just like to break ‘em.”

He laughed again and grabbed at Kurt’s face, making Dave frown. What was he…? It was like watching a TV on mute. What was Tom saying…? Threatening him? Something. Couldn’t… quite… catch… the… words… OH, GOD!

Dave thrust once more, a loud grunt escaping his mouth as cum spurted from his cock, trickling slowly down Kurt’s butt cheek. Dave reached out idly and wiped it off of Fancy and onto his own hand. Who the fuck knew what kind of shit Dave might have? Yeah, there wasn’t much chance it would run off into the pretty bitch and hand over some syphilis or whatever, but with their luck lately, who knew. Last week he would never have believed he'd be in juvie, humping Fancy's leg in the communal shower. Nothing seemed to be going his way lately.

Dave pushed himself off of Kurt, his face red and his chest heaving, as the Gangsta Kings headed out of the shower, probably to stir up so e sadistic shit elsewhere. He licked his lips nervously as Fancy just kind of collapsed against the wall staring at nothing, trying to ignore the strange twisting in his stomach. What the hell was with this guilty feeling? It was just some faggot.

Except it wasn’t just some faggot. It was Kurt.

Karofsky crossed his arms over his chest nervously. What the fuck did he say now? 'Thanks for the ride?' 'Do you take fives or just twenties?' 'Okay, that’s enough for rent, but I’m gonna need some beer too, boy?' …Somehow he didn’t think he should work off his own experiences right now. But he had to say something. He couldn’t leave the little homo just shaking on the ground.

Tiny Tom and the boys would pass it around that the princess was his, but it would take more than thirty seconds and, until then, the pretty little bitch couldn’t just go around flaunting it like he loved to do.

Dave frowned, tonguing his cheek thoughtfully. He couldn’t just leave him sitting in the shower, but—whoa!

Dave caught Kurt by pure reflex as the boy suddenly sprinted toward the shower doors. He yanked him back and had to pull him close to his chest just to keep him still. Motherfucking hell, the boy could move! Of course he had just been… been… raped. Ish. Raped-ish. By him. Dave. Who had raped Fancy. Sort of. Oh, god.

Dave smacked a hand over his mouth as he swallowed down bile, allowing the homo enough freedom to claw at his arms. Hell no. He was *not* gonna puke in front of this bitch. The princess might go around tossing it up into designer scarves every time he saw blood in someone’s teeth, but that was *not* Dave. He would not puke. He would NOT puke. Oh, God.

“Let me go! LET ME GO!”

Dave would be happy to let him go, as long as he didn’t run off and get in trouble again. Oh, God, he was going to puke.

“Fine!” he snapped, trying not hold back the sick feeling in his gut. “But for God’s sake, just go back to the fucking cell, homo! And stay there until I come and get you. Before you fuck anything else up!” He really wanted to puke now.

Dave shoved the smaller boy away and Kurt ran, leaving him to stare after him. 

Oh, God, what had he done? The shower doors swung shut behind the boy and Dave dropped to his knees, puking up what little he’d eaten in the last 48 hours.

“‘M sorry, Fancy,” he whispered, blinking rapidly. “‘M sorry.” He reached up to turn the shower on. He really needed to get that soap out of his eyes before they started watering again.

Wouldn't want anybody to think he was crying.

Damn soap.


	6. Enter Sandman

Get back to their cell, he said. Get back to their cell. Like *hell* he would get back to that damn cell!

Oh, God. Kurt let out a sob as he stumbled hard into the wall, tripping over his own feet. And here he’d thought that the hideous orange scrubs they called clothing in this place were going to be his biggest trial.

If he had only known.

How could this have happened to him? How could Karofsky have done this? Kissing him was one thing. That had been sudden and unexpected but at least *comprehensible*. This was nothing like that kiss. This was *insanity*. There had been no attraction, no interest, just shame and powerlessness and… oh, God.

The heaving in Kurt’s belly was making him worried that he might soon be wearing his lunch, but at least the sickness had chased away the aftereffects of Karofsky’s thigh stroking his… his parts. He sobbed again as the guilt washed through him like a flood. How could he have liked it even a little? All he wanted to do was curl into a little ball and scream forever—how dare his body respond?! How dare it?!

Tears ran down his cheeks. At least his mascara was long gone by now. It was bad enough having red eyes and flushed skin. He didn’t need black streaks on top of everything else.

Kurt let out a broken little laugh. Was he out of his mind? Worrying about how he looked when he’d just been… just been… How could it have happened if he couldn’t even *think* the word?

Oh, God. Focus on something else. Anything else. Think flushed skin. Think makeupless lashes. Think anything but *that.*

Kurt started to close his eyes but reopened them immediately as he felt a ghostly pressure against his back, looking back and forth frantically. No one. There was no one. So why could he feel that steady pounding, hear those whispered words, feel a stickiness running down him? Oh, God.

He swallowed hard, using the concrete wall to hold himself up as he began to knot the drawstring on his pants over and over again, a little frantically. Never again. It would never happen again. It couldn’t. It *couldn’t*.

But how could he stop it? More tears poured down his cheeks as he stared at the line of knots he had made. He couldn’t stop it. This was his body and he couldn’t even stop them from using it. How was that fair? It was *his* body! What right did anyone, *anyone* have to touch what was his?! Damn Karofsky! Damn him to *hell*!

Kurt sank slowly to his knees, staring blankly at the grey floor. The same grey as the wall he had been shoved against. With a sudden shout he slammed his palms against it. Damn the floor and its shower-wall grey tone! Damn it to hell!

Another sob wracked his body as he continued to slam his palms down onto the rough floor over and over again, his whole body shaking with the effort.

Damn, damn, damn, damn, DAMN!

“Whoa, whoa, sweetie!”

Kurt literally jumped as his wrists were suddenly caught by long, slender hands, letting out a whimper as he tried frantically to yank himself free.

“Hey, hey, it’s okay!”

The pressure on his wrists disappeared as suddenly as it had come, and Kurt scooted backward as fast as possible, crawling awkwardly until his back hit the opposite wall, leaving him staring, wide eyed, at the small, slender black boy kneeling across from him.

The boy held up his hands in that universal sign of ‘no weapons here’ and gave him a worried look. “Are you okay, sweetie? Your hands…”

Kurt looked down, blinking in surprise at the vivid red scrape marks running across his palms. Apparently he’d been hitting the floor a little harder than he thought. “I-I…” I what? What could he say? That he was punishing the floor for looking like the shower? God, he was going insane.

“Hey, it’s okay.” The boy smiled, looking a little sad, and Kurt sniffed, wrapping his arms around himself. “Trust me, you’re not the first one to get into a fist fight with an inanimate object around here. Though I, myself, took it out on one of the tables in the cafeteria.”

He smiled again and Kurt couldn’t help but give a sniffly little chuckle. “I’m Sammy.” He stood up very slowly, moving over to kneel next to Kurt. “I won’t hurt you. Let me see your hands.”

Kurt hesitated and Sammy just waited patiently, hands on his knees, as the other boy studied him. He was a very pretty kid, with sharp but delicate features, his limbs long and chest not yet fully developed. Kurt didn’t think he could be more than fourteen or fifteen but, despite having that half-grown teen look to him, he was very attractive, with wide, dark eyes and mocha colored skin. His hair was done neatly in cornrows with braids hanging down to his shoulders, little multi-colored beads woven throughout them.

He had done something to his clothes so that his shirt resembled a crop-top. His abs were cut and defined, despite the scrawniness of his arms and shoulders, but he definitely didn't look threatening. He kind of looked, well, like *Kurt*. 

Kurt took a deep breath and slowly held out his hands, avoiding the other boy's eyes.

Sammy took them gently, studying the scrapes. “These will be okay, but you should be careful with them. I don’t think you need to go to the infirmary, though.” He reached out, wiping the tears off of Kurt’s cheek. “What happened, honey? Did someone hurt you? It doesn’t look like you’ve had a very good day.”

A bitter laugh escaped Kurt’s mouth and his eyes widened at the sound. He hadn’t even sounded *that* bitter when Rachel got the ‘Defying Gravity’ solo. “You… you could say that.” Actually, you could say he was having the worst day in the universe. “I don’t exactly fit in around here.”

Sammy nodded and set a hand on his arm, squeezing gently. “Trust me, I understand.” He gestured toward his very girlish outfit. “Boys like us are not made for places like this.” He sighed, shaking his head tiredly. “I *definitely* understand.” He smiled sadly. “What’s your name, honey?”

Kurt took a deep breath, trying to steady himself. “I-I’m Kurt. Kurt Hummel.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Kurt,” Sammy said, moving around so that he was seated on the floor next to the other boy, back against the wall. “I wish it could have been under better circumstances.”

Kurt gave a choked laugh. “Yeah, this is not exactly a vacation spot.”

“Definitely not.”

Kurt flinched a little as Sammy slipped his arm around his shoulders, then relaxed, leaning into the embrace. Had he really only been in here a few hours? It seemed like years since someone had had just wrapped an arm around him in a supportive way. Had it really been less than a day since he’d hugged his father goodbye? More tears rose in his eyes.

“What happened, Kurt? Did someone hurt you?”

“It seems like everyone is out to hurt me,” Kurt replied hoarsely, shaking his head. “How do you survive in this place?”

Sammy sighed. “It isn’t easy. This… it’s a tough place even if you’re a big, strong guy. For little, pretty guys like us, well, everyday is a challenge. You just have to take it as it comes.” He rubbed little circles on Kurt’s back. “Did one of the boys hurt you?”

Kurt flushed red, nodding. “Y-yes. I… I was in the shower.” He let out a sob and Sammy gave him another comforting squeeze. “Some guys were in there… the kings or something? And they… they were gonna… but then *he* came in and…” Kurt choked. “I don’t want to talk about it.” He dropped his head, blinking away tears. He didn’t want to talk about *anything*. He just wanted to go *home.*

“Oh, honey, it’s okay. I understand.” Sammy laughed sadly. “Trust me, I totally understand. Boys like us can’t go into the shower without someone to watch our backs, Kurt,” he said quietly. “Not when there are guys like the Gangsta Kings and the Run Boys around.”

A disgusted look passed over his face. “Boys like that think that they should be able to own boys like us. Like we’re just property or some stupid shit. That’s why me and my friends try to stick together. So that we can watch each other’s backs.”

He shook his head. “Not that we can really do all that much to keep ourselves safe, but we do what we can. We can at least watch out for each other and try to warn one another if it looks like trouble’s brewing. And that’s a lot more than we can do on our own.”

Kurt leaned a little closer to Sammy, wiping at his eyes. “What are you in here for?”

A sad look passed over Sammy’s face. “My boyfriend was cheating on me. We got into a fight and the guy he was sleeping with called the police. He testified that I had attacked my boyfriend. So I got sent here and my boyfriend got nothing.”

Kurt shook his head. “Wow. That really sucks.”

“The whole system sucks,” Sammy replied, giving him a little smile. “There are some guys in here that you really need to watch out for, though. Who was it that hurt you, honey? Do you know his name?”

Kurt choked up again. “It was a bunch of guys. They were gonna jump me. But then Karofsky came in and pushed them away. And instead he…” Kurt shivered at the memory. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Karofsky?” Sammy questioned with a frown.

“Um, Dave? My cellmate.”

“Ah,” the boy said knowingly, nodding. “Yeah. D’s a big guy. Hard to fight off. And he loves to claim pretty boys as his. It’s in those biker boys’ blood. They licked their Daddy’s boots and think you should lick theirs. Definitely not a good guy to have as a cellmate. He ruins them pretty bad.” Sammy ran a gentle hand through Kurt’s wet hair. “Did he… rape you?”

Kurt swallowed hard, burying his face in Sammy’s shoulder. “No. Yes. I mean, he… against me… he… Oh, God. I-I’d never been with anyone before and he… up against me…”

Sammy’s shoulders tightened and Kurt lifted his head a little, staring up into those worried brown eyes. “You’re a virgin?”

Kurt dropped his eyes, cheeks reddening. “Yes,” he whispered, staring pointedly down at his hands.

“Oh… that’s not good in here, sweetie,” Sammy said quietly. “Not if you want to stay sane—especially if you’re sharing a cell with a boy like Big D.” He placed a gentle hand under Kurt’s chin, slowly raising his face until their eyes were locked.

“Boys like you and me don’t stay innocent long in a place like this. That’s… just how it is. You can try and fight it, but…” Sammy shook his head, lowering his eyes, and Kurt reached out, squeezing his wrist gently. Sammy raised his eyes again, giving him a sad smile. “There’s no use in fighting it. You just get hurt. *Bad.* I’ve seen boys who were never the same afterward. You can’t fight it, but you can work the system. That’s what me and my boys do. We play the system. We know who we can and can’t trust and we stick to that.”

Kurt laughed bitterly. “And how do you know who to trust? I can’t even trust the guy I’m going to be locked in with at night.”

“Oh, I know that feeling, hun,” Sammy said flatly. “*I* was in a cell with Tiny Tom when I first got here.”

Kurt flinched. “Oh my God.”

Sammy laughed. “Yeah, crazy, right? But I talked to the warden and got him to let me switch cells. Now I’m with a boy like us.”

He took a deep breath and glanced down the hallway, looking a little nervous as he leaned forward, lowering his voice. “Look, we can’t bring too many boys into our group or the other gangs will start targeting us for taking away their meat. But if you’d be willing to help us, we would be willing to help you. You remind me of myself when I first got to this place, Kurt, and God knows that boys like us need each other in a place like this.”

Kurt took a nervous breath, trying to hold back the hope rising in his chest. Just because Sammy was willing to help him didn’t mean that he was home free. After all, Sammy wasn’t any stronger than he was. But just having *someone* to back him up would help. Especially someone who understood the system. He licked his lips nervously. “R-really?”

Sammy nodded, giving him a small smile. “It will be okay, Kurt. It’s tough, but you can survive.” He lifted himself up a little, digging into the pocket of his pants and pulling out a small water bottle. “Here, why don’t you drink this? You must be hoarse after all those tears.”

Kurt gave him a thankful smile, reaching out for the bottle. “Thanks, Sammy. I really appreciate—”

“What the motherfucking HELL do you think you’re doing?!”

Kurt jumped, almost dropping the water bottle, as Karofsky’s furious voice echoed down the hallway. Sammy leapt to his feet, stepping in front of Kurt, shielding him as the bigger boy came tearing down the hall at breakneck speed.

Karofsky glanced down at Kurt and his eyes widened, his face going from furious to terrified in an instant. “SHIT, HUMMEL! DO NOT DRINK THAT!”

He shoved Sammy hard, sending the smaller boy flying into the opposite wall, then reached down and grabbed Kurt by the collar, hauling him to his feet. He ripped the water bottle from Kurt’s hand, shoved him back a little, then reached out and smacked him hard across the face.

Kurt let out a yelp as his just scabbed over lip split again and he stumbled backward, falling to the floor once more.

“Stay away from him!” Sammy shouted, pushing himself away from the wall and shoving at Karofsky’s shoulder as the bigger boy hovered menacingly over Kurt. “He’s a person, not an animal, and you have no right to treat him like one. He is *my* friend and you need to stay away from him!”

Kurt whimpered, certain that Karofsky would just rip the pretty little black boy in two, but the boy actually took a step back and cocked his head to the side, looking at Sammy with pure disbelief.

“What the hell are you babbling about?”

Sammy crossed his arms over his chest, glaring. “I said, leave him alone!”

“Sammy!” Kurt said as he stumbled to his feet, teetering a little as he tried to catch his balance. “Don’t get hurt over me!”

Karofsky made a rude noise. “Oh, for the love of God! Are you that naive, Hummel?” He bared his teeth at the black boy, who glowered back at him. “Sammy-Girl is not your fucking friend! Sammy-Girl here is who you go to if you want a cheap fuck.” He glared over at Kurt. “You join Sammy’s crew and I could probably buy your ass for a pack of cigarettes. Or maybe some Skittles? I know Sammy-G has a thing for Skittles.”

Sammy’s mouth dropped open and he glanced over at Kurt, shaking his head in disbelief. “Aren’t these guys unbelievable? Are you insane, D? You think that he’s going to fall for that? How the hell would a queen like *me* end up a pimp? God…”

He moved toward Kurt, a hurt look coming over his face when the boy took a small step back, eyes wide. Sammy sighed. “Baby, don’t listen to that jerk! This is what they love to do. He wants to mess with your head so that you’ll have no one to help you! That way he’ll have you all to himself to do whatever he wants! Then he can come at you at night like the fucking monster under your bed!”

Kurt sucked in a sharp breath. Sammy was right. Karofsky was the one who had violated him. The one who had stolen away so much. Why the hell should he listen to anything that bastard had to say? He took a step toward Sammy and the other boy wrapped his arms around his narrow shoulders, hugging him close.

“That’s right, sweetie. Come on. We’ll go talk to the warden about getting you a new cellmate. One of my boys.”

“Fuck that!” Karofsky snapped, grabbing Kurt’s arm and yanking the smaller boy to him, trapping him against his body as he wrapped one big arm around his small torso. “You think you can trust this slut?”

Kurt struggled against his grip. “He’s like me! He understands in a way you never could!”

A huff of laughter. “Why, ‘cause you’re both faggots? Think that makes her all sweet and trustworthy? You know what she’s in here for, Miss Prissy?”

“He got into a fight with his boyfriend.”

Karofsky snorted. “She bit her boyfriend’s fucking dick off when she found out he was cheating! That’s why she’s in here.” A sneer passed over his face. “Tasty, huh? And why do you think she’s the only nigga queen in here? She’s Tiny Tom’s half-brother!

"This is the fucking sister he was talking about! She’s a Gangsta King. This is what she does! She tricks pretty white boys into trusting her, roofies them, and then shoots so much heroin in their fucking veins while they’re passed out that when they wake up they’ll do *anything* for a hit. And I do mean *anything*.”

Sammy shook his head, eyes wide in disbelief. “I what? Oh, please! Seriously, D, you is crazy, yo!” He turned his attention back to Kurt, eyes narrowed. “I don’t know why this one be wanting you so bad, baby, but don’t you worry none. I won’t let him have you.”

Kurt blinked. Had Sammy’s voice just gotten deeper? A sick feeling washed over him. What the hell was going on?!

“I’m crazy?” Karofsky said, releasing Kurt and moving over toward Sammy, towering over the smaller boy. “Crazy, huh?” He held up the water bottle he’d taken from Kurt. “Then why don’t *you* drink this, Sammy-Girl?”

Kurt leaned up against the wall, breathing hard, as he watched Karofsky and Sammy stare each other down, his eyes wide. Oh God, oh God, oh God. Couldn’t he get five seconds of peace? What was going *on*?

 

The two boys just kind of stared at each other for a moment then Sammy reached out and grabbed the water bottle from Karofsky’s hand, throwing it violently to the floor.

“Fuck you, Big D! What kind of claim you got on the pretty little cracker, yo? She looks like one of MINE to me! All little and girly and white as a line o’ good coke! Stereotypical Sammy’s girl. I want the bitch!”

Kurt’s breath caught and another wave of nausea rolled over him as the realization of just how close he’d come to being one of ‘Sammy’s girls’ sunk in. He let out a choked laugh.

Who would have thought Karofsky would be his knight in psycho armor twice in one day? First he saved him from the army, now from the princess.

“That bitch belongs to me!” Karofsky snapped, pointing a finger at Kurt. “He is *my* girl, not yours, and he ain’t gonna be in here long enough to whore for you anyway!” He spat on the floor. “I just told your brother, homegirl, and now I’m gonna tell you and you can just spread it around the whole damn prison! Kurt Hummel belongs to Dave! And anybody who touches him will answer to Dave! You fuck with him, you fuck with me! You get that or do I need to spell it out, motherfucker?”

Sammy’s fists clenched at his sides, his upper lip twitching in anger. “Yeah. I get it. Which is good ‘cause I seriously be doubting that you can spell out your own damn name, much less anything else—’BIG’ has a lot of letters in it. But you better watch yo’ back, D. I don’t take kindly to bootlickin’ bikers fuckin’ wid my meat!”

“I don’t gotta watch my back ‘cause I never turn it on *anyone*. So you can lick *my* boots, Sammy-G. Now you get the fuck out of my sight before I put The Fury in your face!” He turned toward Kurt, smacking his fist into his palm. “And you? Go to our fucking cell. And this time STAY THERE!”

Kurt hesitated for an instant then turned and ran as Karofsky took a menacing step toward him.

Back to their cell. Okay, he could go back to their cell. It had to be better than this hell.

* * *

Could silence echo? Because Kurt was pretty sure that the silence was bouncing all over the cell. Seriously, it had to be the loudest silence he’d ever heard. Or not heard. Or whatever.

This was really making his head hurt.

He shifted uncomfortably, trying to suppress the nervous energy that seemed set on keeping his heart pounding at the speed of light and the sweat building on his palms.

He tugged the covers closer, wincing as the rough weave against his scratched palms. The blanket wasn’t helping his nervous sweating any, but for some reason it made him feel better to be wrapped in it. Like a makeshift shield.

Not that the thin material would do much to keep Karofsky away if he decided to invade Kurt’s personal space, sandpaper-like feel or no, but it was better than nothing. Especially with the sound of Karofsky’s steady breathing coming other other bunk. Talk about sleeping with one eye open.

Kurt swallowed deeply and tried to focus on something, anything, other than the boy lying in the low light a few feet from him. Focus on… his mattress. Yeah. He could think about his mattress. His retched mattress. Oh, to be back on his Temperpedic with his down comforter. Seriously, if he got lice in here, someone was going to die.

He shifted again, pulling his knees more tightly against his chest as he stared at the unmoving lump on the other bed. Was that mattress as bad as this one? Karofsky didn’t seem too uncomfortable, despite the fact that his shoulders were almost as wide as the bed. Of course, his pulse probably wasn’t trying to go into warp mode and his palms probably weren’t attempting to dehydrate him.

Really, as if being in the same *building* with Karofsky wasn’t bad enough, he’d ended up locked in a ten by ten cell with the bastard? He must have done something *really* bad in his past lifetime because fate sure seemed to have it in for one Kurt Hummel. Maybe he’d bought his clothes from WalMart. Or bombed the Russians. Or wore white shoes after Labor Day.

Not that Karofsky had actually tried anything so far. After that little confrontation with Sammy in the hallway, the bigger boy had practically chased Kurt to their cell and then just disappeared, leaving Kurt sitting on the cold floor, staring at nothing, as he tried to process all the things that had happened today. Not an easy task.

And though it had seemed like just a few minutes, more time must have passed than he’d realized because next thing he knew Karofsky was back and the guards were locking the cell behind him. Apparently he had missed dinner. Kurt had sat there, petrified, as the lock clanked into place, but the big ogre hadn’t done anything more than plop down onto a bed with a grunt after Kurt had refused to respond to ‘Which one ya want?’

Kurt took a deep breath, trying to calm his racing heart. He needed to relax. He wasn’t sure what Karofsky’s angle was, but in the seemingly endless time they’d had between lockdown and lights out Kurt had decided one thing: He might not be able to protect his body, but he could protect his pride. He was not going to cower before Dave Karofsky, not matter what sorts of terrifying things he did.

Of course, besides being absolutely terrifying, Karofsky *had* kept him from being turned into so much meat in the shower and then saved him from *that boy.* God, it made Kurt feel physically ill, just how close he’d come to… Was there even a word for that? A verb for being turned into a whore? Prostitutified, maybe?

God, he was so fucking stupid to have trusted *anyone* in this place, pretty face and sweet talk or no. Kurt raised his hand slowly, wincing as he touched his cheek. It was swelling a little. Not surprising, considering that both Karofsky and Tiny Tom had smacked the shit out of him.

No one had ever hit him in the face before. It wasn’t very pleasant. But it was more pleasant than feeling Karofsky’s dick against him.

He glanced over at Karofsky again, wondering if the other boy was asleep. He could see his form clearly since, though they called it ‘lights out,’ apparently it never got fully dark in here, the light shining in from the hallway casting a bluish sort of tint over everything.

Kurt had tried pretending that he was on a yacht and the light was the full moon seeping in through the windows, but the scratchy sheets and lumpy pillow hadn’t allowed him the pretty dream. Though the nervous feeling in his gut *was* reminiscent of sea sickness.

Kurt sighed. He should just give it up. He was never going to get any sleep in this place. How *could* he sleep, with Karofsky right there? Not that he’d be any more capable of stopping the other boy from doing… whatever… when he was awake than asleep. But it just *felt* safer.

Kind of like using a blanket as a shield.

“For fuck’s sake, will you relax already, ladyface? I can hear your heart pounding from over here. It’s giving me a headache.”

Kurt jerked slightly at the sound of Karofsky’s voice, then took a deep breath, steeling his courage. He might not have much, but he had his pride. “It’s a little hard to relax when I am laying three feet from the boy who *raped* me.”

Karofsky snorted, rolling over so that he was facing Kurt, eyes narrowed. “I did what I had to do, Fancy. I had to make it clear that you’re mine.”

A flash of anger shot through Kurt’s veins. “Screw your excuses. You *had* to rape me? Bullshit. Fuck you, Karofsky.”

Kurt saw the other boy’s jaw tighten.

“I didn’t want to, okay?” he snapped, voice low. “I’m not Tiny Tom. I’m not into that crap. So you can quit tossing and turning. I’m not gonna molest you in your sleep or whatever.”

“That’s not what Sammy said.”

Karofsky’s eyes rolled. “Because he’s such a fount of truth. That’s *why* I had to do it, Hummel. Because I *don’t* keep boys. I had to make sure they believed me.”

He sighed. “I get why you’re pissed. You feel dirty and used and all that crap. Been there, done that. You’ll survive. And I have no interest in a repeat performance, okay? You just play along and we should be cool. Word will spread that you belong to me and maybe tomorrow we sit behind the bunks and pretend to be doing something that we’re not. Or we lay in bed together for five minutes or something. Then nobody will mess with you. Or me.

"A couple of days and you can get the fuck out of here and, since they’ll probably stick me in here for good, and if not, well, I’m definitely expelled, we’ll never have to see each other again.” The words were clipped and Karofsky rolled over onto his back again, staring up at the ceiling.

Kurt scowled, sitting up abruptly. “That’s all? That’s all you have to say?” He laughed harshly, using his anger at Karofsky's words to keep the tears away. “You stole something from me, Karofsky, that I’ll never be able to get back! You stole my innocence!”

A bitter laugh came from the other bunk. “I stole your innocence? I saved your fucking innocence, homo. You will *always* be innocent, and that’s how it should be. People like you deserve to stay innocent, even if you are a sick fucking faggot.

"I may hate homos, but I’d kill you out of fucking pity before I’d let you really lose your precious innocence. ‘Cause you’d be better off.” He sighed loudly. “Look, I’m sorry. And you should appreciate that 'cause I sure as hell ain't sorry for much. I’m sorry that I did that to you. I never wanted to do that. I understand that you feel like I… made you less *innocent* or whatever." 

Kurt could hear the sarcasm in his voice. 

"But you’re still innocent, Fancy. You’re still innocent if you really think that what happened in the showers today was the end of the goddamn world. Life goes on, and will continue to suck forever. You can stop worrying, though, because you wanna know the truth? When you were out of those showers, I puked my guts up. I fell to my knees and puked like a girl.”  
His voice sharpened and Kurt frowned at he watched Karofsky’s fists clench. “And you want to know why? ‘Cause I lost something too! I did the kind of shit that I hate. The kind of shit that my old man would do. And I swore that I’d never be like my Pops. Maybe it wasn’t the same kind of innocence bullshit you’re talking about, ‘cause I’m sure as hell no innocent, but it was something. And I’ll never get that back either. So just go the fuck asleep and leave me alone, faggot. You’ve fucked up my life enough, homo.”

Kurt shook his head in disbelief. Was this boy out of his mind? “*I’ve* fucked up *your* life? I think you’ve got that a little backward, Karofsky.”

The other boy turned his head, glaring. “Why did you do it, anyway? Why couldn’t you just let me be?!”

Kurt slapped a hand on his knee in annoyance. “For the last time, *you* were the one who kissed—”

“Not that, you fucking fag,” Karofsky interrupted, propping himself up on one arm. “Why did you *tell him*?”

Okay, now he was thoroughly confused. Kurt frowned deeply. “Tell who what? What are you talking about, Karofsky?”

The boy let out an irritated sound. “Why did you tell Hudson about *that*?”

Kurt’s brow crinkled in confusion. “Tell Hudson? I didn’t tell Finn anything!” Was Karofsky out of his mind? Why the hell would he tell Finn about that kiss? He didn’t want to talk about it to *anyone*, much less Finn.

“Don’t lie to me, Hummel. He was all up in my face about it, saying that I was watching you all the time and that I should call myself fucking Cleopatra, Queen of Denial!”

Kurt’s mouth dropped open a little. No way… *That* was what the fight had been over? “*That’s* why you choked him? Because you thought he knew that you,” he lowered his voice slightly, “kissed me? He was just messing with you! He doesn’t know anything! You call people fags all the time—he was just making yet another homophobic joke, God bless his sweet but insensitive heart!”

There was a long silence, then Karofsky spoke, voice soft. “You… you didn’t tell him?”

Kurt shook his head. “No, I didn’t! But whether I had or hadn’t, were you really going to choke him to death for thinking you were gay?! That is *insane,* Karofsky. Even your little mind should know that’s not worth killing over!”

“Maybe it is,” Karofsky said flatly, collapsing back onto the mattress, eyes locked on the ceiling once more.

Kurt let out a disbelieving laugh. “You know what? You are *sick*. There is something *so* wrong with you—”

“There’s nothing wrong with me because I’m not a faggot,” Karofsky replied sharply. “Faggots are the sick ones.” The anger was definitely rising in Karofsky’s tone and Kurt took a deep breath. He was sitting in a cage with a person who thought killing someone for thinking you're gay was just fine and dandy. Maybe he should be a little more cautious with his words.

“Okay, Karofsky,” he said evenly. “So you were really going to choke to death someone who’s been your friend for years just because you thought he might think you’re homosexual? Does that really make sense to you?”

There was a long pause and when Karofsky spoke his words were barely a mumble. “I didn’t mean to.”

Kurt frowned. “You didn’t mean to choke him?”

Karofsky sighed. “I just lose control sometimes, okay? When things start to… hurt, I guess. But pain makes you weak. So I just sort of try and punch it away. But sometimes I just get so fucking furious that I lose control.” He let out a bitter sounding laugh. “Just another way I’ve turned out like my Pops.”

“What, you inherited his temper? God help us if there are two of you on this planet.”

Karofsky made a half shrugging sort of motion. “He thinks you can solve every problem with one of two things: your fists or a bottle of whiskey. Whichever’s handier.”

“I guess today your fist was handier,” Kurt said dryly, touching his swollen cheek.

Karofsky glanced over at him, giving him a Look. “No, you *deserved* that.”

Kurt raised an eyebrow. “I deserved it? You think you had a right to hit me?”

“You were being stupid. You get what you deserve for being a moron.” Karofsky snorted. “But I guess I shouldn’t be surprised that a princess like you thinks you’re above reproach. You’re kinda like Azimio that way. The way you guys treat your dads? My old man would beat the shit out of me.”

Kurt blinked. “Your dad hits you?” Why did that surprise him? He should have guessed it just from the way Karofsky took having his face turned into mush in a stride. It just seemed so foreign to him. Dads didn’t hit you. Dads loved you. Dads took care of you. Dads supported you. Or his dad did, anyway. That just seemed like the definition of ‘dad’.

Karofsky turned his head to look at Kurt again. “When you piss him off, what does your dad do?”

Kurt frowned. “Well, usually he talks to me about it, and then sometimes he grounds me. He took away my car once for lying to him.”

“Has he ever hit you?”

No. Well, maybe. He didn’t really remember as a little kid… “Um, he may have spanked me sometimes?”

Dave looked back at the ceiling, grimacing. “Yeah, they think they’re real funny, don't they?”

“Excuse me?” Kurt said, frowning.

“Spanking. Obviously nobody wants to get beat, but whatever he did—belt, coat hanger, extension cord, just his fists to my face—it was better than when he spanked me. Thought it was real funny. He’d beat me to hurt me. He’d spank me to humiliate me. Bent over his fucking lap like a whore. Plus I was always big, and when I was twelve I was almost as tall as I am now. So I didn’t exactly fit, which is what made it ridiculous, and humiliating.”

His voice sounded bitter. “And I could feel him, if you know what I mean. But I think that’s what made it so funny. To him, obviously. I just thought it was sick. But what do you do, right?”

Kurt shook his head, a little confused. “He spanked you when you were twelve? I meant that my dad might have spanked me when I was, like, a toddler or something. I don’t even remember, and I never asked him about it or anything. I know he would never hit me now. Your dad would hit you with a belt? Or an extension cord? How do you hit someone with an extension cord?”

“Uh, gee I dunno,” Karofsky said sarcastically, “I guess you, like, pick it up and swing it. And then it hits them. It’s crazy how that works.”

Kurt rolled his eyes. “It really amazes me that, no matter how messed up the topic, you can still make me want to smack you upside the head.”

“See, that’s what I mean.”

“What?” Kurt asked, brow furrowing a little.

“That’s what I mean. If you was my Pops you wouldn’t have said that, you would have smacked me upside the head. Being a bitch isn’t going to shut me up. Start punching me in the face and I might watch what I say to you, homo.” He laughed cruelly and Kurt shook his head.

“You are crazy. And violence does not solve problems, Karofsky. You say that your dad hits you. Well, you must still act up if your dad still hits you—so apparently your little system of 'whip 'em into shape' doesn’t always work.”

Karofsky was silent for a moment, then he shrugged. “Yeah, well… It’s different with my old man. Sometimes he’ll care about something and work me over, other times he won’t give a damn. It really depends on whether the liquor has him on a downer or not. And sometimes he doesn’t care about anything, then other times you look at him wrong and he just goes nuts.”

Kurt watched in the pale light as Karofsky lifted his hands, staring at his palms.

“Couple three months ago or so I was gonna make some pasta.” He chuckled. “Since we actually had both running wanter *and* gas at the same time—pretty impressive since he don’t pay the bills much. Had a pot on the stove. Pops wanted a beer. Our kitchen isn’t real big. He shoved me and I told him to go to hell.”

He laughed again. “That’ll teach me to put water on the stove. He said having the pot there was askin’ for it.”

Kurt frowned. “Asking for what?”

Dave glanced over at him, an amused look on his face. “He shoved my hands into the water I was boiling.” He chuckled.

Kurt sat there silently for a moment, mouth hanging open. His father had shoved his hands into *boiling water*? And Karofsky was *laughing* about it? What the hell? “That’s horrible! Why the hell didn’t you tell someone? You live with this man?”

Karofsky shrugged. “Didn’t want to get him in trouble. I *was* in his way.”

“I don’t think that being in someone’s way gives them the right to burn your hands! Didn’t anyone notice?”

“I just told my buddies that I spilt coffee on ‘em.”

Kurt shook his head. “But he hurt you! You shouldn’t stay with someone like that.”

“Look, pretty,” Karofsky said, kind of sounding like he wanted to laugh some more. “Not everybody has a dad like yours. My old man can be a bastard, but he’s still my Pops. Besides, I got no urge to go back to foster care.” He snorted.

“At least my dad don’t try shit with me anymore like he used to. I pay the rent, he stays in his room at night. You go into foster care, you always end up with some sicko after awhile. And you can’t fight him ‘cause they’ll arrest you.”

His voice had a meandering tone to it, as if he was talking to himself. “You tattle and they just say that you’re a troubled teen, telling lies. So there’s nothing you can do but accept what you’re given. I’d like to kill them all. Freaks.”

Kurt stared at the other boy, confused. “You want to kill your foster parents?”

Karofsky just shrugged and gazed at nothing for a moment before speaking. “You had homo sex?”

Kurt choked slightly, eyes widening. “Excuse me?!”

“You had homo sex? Y’know, like, with a dude. Since you’re a fag and all.”

Kurt crossed his arms over his chest, blushing. “I really don’t think that’s any of your business. For someone so far in the closet that you might as well be in Narnia, you sure do ask weird questions.”

“I was just wondering,” Karofsky said, not really sounding like he cared one way or the other. “I mean, I’m not a faggot. I was just wondering. If you’d ever, like, sucked dick.”

“Why the hell would you care?” Kurt snapped back, embarrassed. This was really, *really* not the sort of conversation he had *ever* expected to have with Dave Karofsky. “Looking to steal that from me, too?”

Karofsky snorted. “Ha ha. Aren’t we just the comedian?" He sighed. "I guess I just want to know how queers like it. How could anybody like that sick shit?”

Kurt’s cheeks grew red and he glared at Karofsky, annoyed. “You know, you referring to my sexuality as ‘sick shit’ is getting pretty old, pretty fast, Karofsky.”

“It is sick.”

Kurt gritted his teeth. Ignorant closet case. “No,” he said cooly, “it’s not. It’s two people who care about each other showing their love!”

“Really?” Karofsky said disbelievingly, raising an eyebrow.

“Yes, really,” Kurt snapped back. And once again he would like very much to smack Dave Karofsky upside the head.

“So you have got fucked. Or fucked someone. Or whatever.”

Kurt took a steadying breath before replying. “No. I haven’t.”

Kurt sat with shoulders tensed as the silence grew between them. He was just beginning to wonder if Karofsky had actually fallen asleep when a soft voice came from his bed.

“I have.”

Kurt’s eyes widened. “Wh-what?”

“I’ve been fucked.”

Kurt blinked, not sure what to say to that. Dave ‘YOU kissed *ME*, homo!’ Karofsky had been with a man? Okay, where was he and what had the universe done with reality? Apparently a response wasn’t required, however, because a moment later the other boy spoke again, an exhausted edge to his voice.

“It hurts like hell most of the time. But I got used to that. And I hate sucking. The first time I kinda threw up in my mouth and had to swallow it back down again. I don’t wanna fuck. I don’t even watch porn. And when my boys all started getting into girls and shit… I didn’t want anything to do with it. But I didn’t want to look like a loser so I nailed Santana.

"I hated it. I just wanted to get it over with. Then Brittany sucked my cock once and it felt good but all I could think of was how much I hate dick in my mouth and how I didn’t want her to have to do that. Even though she said she wanted to. And I just wasn’t into, well, anything. Didn’t think I ever would be. And then…”

He let out a little huff of laughter. “And then one day you come along, prancing around like a slut with a sign flashing ‘homo explosion’ over your head. And I start seeing guys. Seeing them in a way I hadn’t ever looked at *anyone* before. And I was like, hell no! All the bastards who took my tail over the years did *not* turn me into a fucking faggot. I’m not a faggot! How the hell can I be a homo when I hate homo sex? And then I’d be walking down the hall and I’d see *you*,” Kurt winced slightly at the disgust in his voice, “and I’d think, ‘hey, he’s cute.’ What the hell? And all I could think was that they won. They made me into what they wanted. My old man calls me a fucking cocksucker. Acts like I was into it or something. Thinks he’s real funny. But he didn’t make me a fag. I’m not a faggot. They didn’t make me a faggot!”

Wow. That was… wow. Kurt’s mouth felt really, really dry, too dry to even speak. But that was okay because he didn’t think he’d know what to say if he *could* speak. Karofsky had been… raped? Raped?

How do you even connect a word like ‘raped’ to the image of a big, tough guy like Karofsky? Except in a ‘he raped’ as opposed to a ‘was raped’ sort of way. Like what he had done to Kurt.

Which had been terrible but nowhere near the level of terrible that Karofsky’s words implied. Being forced to… that was a whole new level of terrible. He had hardly been able to stand the guilt and helplessness of Karofsky just rubbing up against him. How the hell did you even function if someone actually raped you?

Kurt eyed the big boy, still not sure what to say. How could anyone have made a guy like that do anything he didn’t want to do? Had it happened when he was a kid, maybe? Had he been molested? Molested. Somehow the word just wasn’t strong enough to convey the sort of stuff Karofsky was talking about.

Apparently he had waited a little too long to speak because a bitter laugh came from Karofsky.

“See, even you think I’m sick now, don’t you? I'm twisted, right? I mean, I hate that they do it to me, and I turn around and do it to you.”

Kurt swallowed hard. “What? No… I just… it’s hard to imagine a strong guy like you being… raped…”

“I wasn’t raped,” the other boy said flatly. “I never really fought it. Not even as a kid. Got paid for it sometimes. Still do, if my old man drinks all the rent or if Coach decides we need new cleats to play on a slippery field or something. I made more money before I hit puberty, especially when my Pops brought guys home, but I think dudes like it that I’m so big. Makes ‘em feel like big men to fuck me. Living a fantasy away from their middle aged wives and 2.5 kids or whatever. But I’m not a faggot. I just do what I gotta do. I mean, how can you like dudes if the thought of sucking dick makes you want to puke, right?”

Loaded question much? Talk about a time when a psychology degree would come in handy.

Kurt moved around on the bed until he was leaning up against the wall, facing Karofsky, his legs drawn up to his chest as he watched the boy’s unmoving form. Someone replace the bunk with a couch and you could call him Dr. Hummel. How the hell could *Karofsky* have… done *that*? This was the guy who freaked out over a single kiss and now he was saying he slept with men for money?

“I… I’m not sure *that* has anything to do with your sexuality, Karof—Dave." Might as well call him by his first name if they were going to talk about the most intimate act you could have. "I mean, people are straight even if they never have sex. And people are gay, even if they never have sex. Or never have sex for fun… or whatever.”

He really did not want to go there. “What I mean is, you’re born with your sexuality, Dave. No one ‘turned’ you gay. If you like guys then you would have liked guys, no matter what did or didn’t happen to you as a kid.”

“So *you* say. But you’re a faggot. Why *wouldn’t* you say that?” He sounded so depressed that Kurt couldn’t even work up the energy to be annoyed with him.

“Are you attracted to the people that… that you had sex with, that you hated?”

Dave turned his head again, glaring. “Fuck you. No. I hope they die.” He frowned, turning his gaze back on the ceiling. “Well, most of ‘em. Not… not my Pops.”

If he ever got out of here he needed to take his dad out for dinner or just buy him a castle or something. He had never been so grateful for having an awesome father before. “Well, that’s my point. If they made you gay, then wouldn’t you be attracted to *them*?”

There was a long silence, then, “I’m not a fag.”

Kurt stared at him for a moment, then sighed. “Okay, Karofsky.” Let the boy stay in the closet—he sure as hell had a good reason to hide in there. Trying to force him out wouldn’t help anyone. “And I have to say—I don’t agree with you much, but those sick bastards deserve to hang.” And Karofsky’s dad, too, though he wouldn’t say that out loud.

Karofsky made a small noise of agreement.

Funny how he had ended up almost feeling sorry for the homophobic bully. Hell, if his own father had stuck him on a street corner before his balls even dropped then he might share Karofsky’s inability to separate the disgusting men who molested him and gays. He could understand the confusion, anyway.

“Karofsky… if you hate gays so much, why did you help me?”

For a moment Kurt didn’t think Karofsky was going to answer, then he spoke up softly. “You’re not like me. Not like the guys in here. Don't you get it? You can’t turn your back on someone in here. Not on *anyone.* They’ll put a knife in it. Or worse. I usually say people get what they deserve. But you didn’t even deserve what you got today, much less to end up Sammy-Girl’s toy.”

He laughed. “It’s my fault you’re in here and it was my fault you were sitting in that hall, crying, where Sammy could get at you. If anyone deserves to pay, well, it ain’t you." A pause. "Maybe me.” The last part was said quietly enough that Kurt was pretty sure Karofsky hadn’t meant to say it aloud.

Kurt stared at the other boy for a moment then gave a tired little nod, letting out a sigh as he laid back down on his lumpy mattress. Okay. That almost made sense, if anything Karofsky said made sense. He might as well try and get some sleep.

This little chat session might have left him with a queasy stomach, but at least his nerves had been calmed a bit. Karofsky might attack in the night, but Kurt was pretty sure that it wouldn’t be with his penis and, somehow, *that* was an amazing comfort.

Hell, if he had to pick between being suffocated with a pillow and becoming Karofsky’s pillow biter, well, there *were* some upsides to dying. At least he wouldn’t have to live everyday with the knowledge that he had been choked to death.

Man, what was that stupid prayer that Christian kids said? Now I... now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord my soul to keep, if I die... if I die before I wake, I pray the Lord my soul to take? Or something. He was pretty sure that’s what had been in that metal song that Puck and Finn played on Guitar Hero all the time, anyway.

“Kurt?”

He opened his eyes, his gaze flickering over to Karofsky. “Yeah?”

“There’s a knife in my boot.”

Kurt’s heart sped up slightly at the words. “I… okay.” Deep breath. “Is there a reason you’re telling me this?” Because he’d really like time to write out a will before he met his death by cellmate. Mercedes should know he wanted her to have all his hats. Except the one with the peacock feathers and the purple sequins. He planned to be buried in that.

“I was sitting on your bunk when I took off my boots.”

Kurt blinked, then furrowed his brow. What? He sat on his bunk to take off his boots? Okay… “Why are you telling me this?”

“There’s a button on the knife. You press it to open it.”

Kurt sat up, heart pounding. “Dave, why are you telling me this?”

“Good night, Fancy.” He turned over pointedly, leaving Kurt to stare at his back. His very exposed back. The back he had just told Kurt that he should never turn on anyone.

Kurt’s gazed at that broad expanse of pale skin. There were little freckles on his back. Karofsky had been on his bunk… when he took off his boots… Very slowly Kurt climbed to his knees and bent over to look under his bed, reaching back and back until his fingertips brushed leather. His breath caught as and he wrapped his fingers around it, giving a little tug.

Kurt stared down dully at the boot in his hand for a long moment. There was a small black hilt clipped on the leather upper. He blinked, surprised. That was not what he had expected to find hiding under his bed at night.

He glanced over at Karofsky’s unmoving back. Kurt choked slightly as memories flashed through his mind. His face scraping the concrete wall, the smell of sex filling his senses as something warm and sticky ran down his buttock. Oh, God. He swallowed deeply.

Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord my soul to keep. If I die before I wake, I pray the Lord my soul to take.

Kurt clenched his jaw, shaking his head angrily as he shoved the boot back under his bed.

Dammit, Karofsky. Couldn’t the bastard just let a boy hate him in peace?

“Goodnight, Dave.” Kurt said as he laid back down, shutting his eyes. He had better try and get *some* sleep. Tomorrow would be another day.

For both of them.

Off to Never Never Land.


	7. Survivor

The lights flashed on. Another morning.

A delicate little snore came from Kurt’s bunk. Amazing how Fancy managed to sound pretty even in his fucking sleep.

Dave let out a quiet sigh, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. Another day. One down, two point five to go. At least there had only been two attempts to claim the princess’ butt for the Gangsta Kingdom. They were doing pretty good.

And Kurt hadn’t added any scars to Dave’s already impressive collection. Probably didn’t want to get blood under his nails. Ladyface had practically had a breakdown when he’d been informed he couldn’t bring his moisturizing products into lockdown. He probably didn’t want his beauty-rific game plan or whatever fucked up, spoiling his pores with bodily fluids.

Dave woulda done it. Not so much because anything hardcore had gone down but just on principle. No juvie trash would have taken his manhood.

Of course, just because he didn't have any new marks didn’t mean that Pretty wasn't dying to off him. He probably just knew that if he put Dave in the infirmary, pretty boy's ass would be open season.

Dave sat up and yawned as a guard walked by, dragging his stick along the front of the cell. “Up and at ‘em, boys!” He smacked one of the bars. “Hey, princess! Wake up!”

The little homo sat up abruptly, glancing around nervously with wide eyes, his face all pink and his hair sticking up all over the place. Dave hid a grin. Fancy pants would probably have a freak out if he could see himself in a mirror right now.

Kurt rubbed at his face, looking tired as he yawned widely. Dave parodied him, unable to stop himself--fucking yawns--as he stretched, popping his neck. Way too early to be up on a Saturday.

God, he really needed to piss.

Dave rolled out of bed, padding on bare feet over to the toilet in the corner, snorting softly at the distressed sound Fancy made when he pulled out his dick. For fuck’s sake, girlie boy’s sensibilities were more delicate than a china fucking teacup. God help the kid when he figured out that, eventually, he was gonna have to take a shit. In front of Dave.

Dave’s lip turned up in amusement as an image of Kurt flashed through his mind, Fancy sitting on the pot, hiding his face as he rocked back and forth, practically comatose from the absolute horror of having to take a poop in public.

Welcome to lockdown, sweetheart. TP really *was* like goddamn gold.

He let out a little sigh as he pissed. Hmmm. Yeah, that was better.

Dave shook it off and stuffed it back into his boxers as he turned around, grabbing the clean scrubs the guard had tossed into their cell. “What?” he said, feigning innocence as Kurt stared at him with an offended look on his face. Little miss priss.

“At least warn a boy before you just urinate all over the place, would you?” he asked in an irritated voice, his little button nose shoved in the air like the fucking Queen of England.

Dave gave a laugh. “Urinate all over the place? Dude, I peed in the toilet. That’s fair game, princess. But if you wanna see me piss all over the place, I can do that, too. I have very precise aim.”

“Gee, aren’t we quite the comedian this morning?” Kurt replied with a sniff.

Snotty little bitch. “Seriously, you want me to pee all over the place? You’re officially my girl now, so you’ll be the one on hands and knees, your scrawny little ass in the air, as you mop it up.”

Whatever witty retort Fancy had been forming was cut off when he snapped his mouth shut, a slightly horrified look on his face.

Dave smirked. Yeah, that was what he thought. “C’mon, Ladyface. We ain’t got nothing to do, but they don’t let us sleep in, so get your ass outta bed. I want some food and getting a waffle in this place is like dancing through a warzone. I can’t have you holding me up.”

The princess stared at him for a moment, face reddening slightly, then tugged the covers closer. “Uh, we have to get up? Now? Can’t I just stay in bed for a little while? I know that attempting to get beauty sleep is fruitless for someone who looks like you, but some of us rely on a full sleep cycle to give our skin that natural shine.”

Dave rolled his eyes. Prissy little bitch. Always with the attitude. Probably needed twelve hours of sleep a night to keep himself from growing hair down there or something. “No. It’s time to get the fuck up or we’ll miss breakfast. It’s free food. I’m there. Get your glittery ass outta the damn bed or I’ll pick you up, throw you over my shoulder, and carry you to the cafeteria in your panties. I effed with the G Kings to keep ‘em from tattooing the words ‘insert here’ on your butt cheeks and if you get grabbed because you’re shaking your flaunting little fairy hips all the way to chow, it’ll be my rep that gets the smackdown. So get up or I’ll make you get up. Clear?”

Okay, pretty boy’s face was now officially the color of a baby’s butt after you slap the shit out of it with a spatula. What the fuck was his problem?

Dave moved over to Kurt’s bunk, grabbing his boots. “What’s the deal?” He collapsed back onto his mattress, roughly yanking on his boots. “Just get up already.”

Fancy shifted nervously, and Dave glanced up raising an eyebrow and the boy shoved his chin prissily in the air, even as his eyes got wider than that freaky guidance counselor’s had after Dave dropped a used condom in her hair. 

Kurt cleared his throat, shifting around as he tugged his blanket tighter. “I… Um, I have… Uh…”

Oh, come on. What were they, nine? “For fuck’s sake, quit blushing like a forty year old virgin in a titty bar and just tell me the problem. You’re starting to piss me off and the cheeks on your face aren’t gonna be the only ones the color of a tomato if you don’t just spit it out.”

Kurt sat up very straight, clearing his throat as he carefully combed out his hair with his fingers, staring pointedly at nothing. “This is… somewhat uncomfortable.”

Dave sighed in annoyance. Once again with the delicate sensibilities. “What? You gotta take a shit or something? I solemnly swear I will not look at you while you crap, okay? It was weird enough that time at McKinley when Azimio and I were hiding in a bathroom stall, waiting to jump that creepy Jew-fro kid, and Az suddenly decided he was gonna sit down and poop. And he’s all, ‘Hey bodily functions happen, dude!’” Dave grimaced. “I have no urge to spy on you while you go number two, okay? It’s, like, prison etiquette. Look in the other direction and plug your nose.”

The look of absolute horror on Fancy’s face was truly beautiful.

“What?! Oh my God, we have to poop in front of each other? That’s… just yuck. But no. No, that’s not the problem. I'm just, erm…” He cleared his throat again. “Okay, please do not murder me. I'm just a little… awake. Alert, even. In a boy way, if you get my drift." He winced. 

Dave blinked. Alert? In a boy way? Oh. OH. Entirely without his permission, Dave’s traitorous eyes dropped to Fancy’s crotch, his breath catching slightly as he saw the tent in the thin bedding.

The homo was hard. The homo was *hard.* Dave’s face grew warm as he felt a slight… something… in his groin.

Motherfucking hell.

Dave gritted his teeth. No, no, no. This was not happening. No, no, no.

“What, you getting off on the idea of me standin’ around flashing my ass while you give yourself a fag-happy?” he snapped, clenching his fists at his side. “That it, homo?”

Kurt’s eyes flashed. “Screw you, Karofsky. The last thing I want to look at is your fat ass.”

“Oh yeah?” Dave shot back, heart pounding a little too fast. He shifted slightly, not liking the feeling between his legs. This was *not* happening. “Why else you be rising and shining, faggot? Huh?”

God, what the fuck had he been thinking, playing share and tell with the little fairy last night? Fuck the guilt—where had his sense of goddamn survival gone? Fancy obviously thought he was a fag now, and if he could have gotten Dave neck deep in shit just mouthing off about that time in the locker room when he had practically raped Dave’s lip, oh God… Knowing all about Dave’s part time job was like handing the homo a nuclear weapon.

“Look Hummel,” he snapped. “Keep your fag to yourself. All that shit last night? That’s on a need to know basis—and nobody needs to know. And just ‘cause I’ve been around the block doesn’t mean you use me for eye candy. Find someone else to star in your head porn.”

The little bitch’s eyes narrowed, his jaw tightening. “Oh, go to hell Karofsky! For the last time, *you* are most *certainly* not the sort of man I dream about late at night! Except maybe in my *nightmares*! In the words of your Neanderthal buddy, bodily functions happen! Now, I don’t know much about prison etiquette--and Ms. Manners most certainly did not cover this situation--however, I suggest you turn your oversized butt around and stare at your broken fingernails or something while I… handle the problem. Then, when said problem arises for *you*, I’ll just turn my astoundingly attractive and fashionable butt around and lament over the sad state of my cuticles. That sounds fair to me!”

“The problem is not going to *arise* for me!” Dave snapped back, clenching his jaw. It wouldn’t because he wasn’t a faggot and nothing would happen. *Nothing.* Because he felt *nothing*.

Dave’s eyes dropped back down to the… problem that had arisen, his face flaming as his cock twitched again. He gritted his teeth. This was all that prancing princess’ fault, always flaunting himself around. It was a fucking homo disease. Like AIDS, only you just had to breath the same damn air to catch it.

Kurt laughed, waving a hand dismissively. “You know what? I’m not afraid of you. Turn around, stand there and watch—*I* don’t care. *I’ll* do as I please!”

As if he ever did anything else.

Kurt suddenly shoved his hand under the blanket, making a soft moaning sound.

Dave choked, his face twisting up in disgust as he whirled around, grimacing at the sudden rush of blood to his dick. Dammit! No, no, no, no, no! This wasn’t happening. This couldn’t be *happening*! 

“Shit, Hummel! What the hell happened to you having shame?” Shame. Ha. Who the fuck was he to talk about shame. Why should he be surprised that this little queer was just like the rest. A wave of pain washed through him. It didn’t matter where he was or who he was with, it followed him, just like his old man had always said. Shit, shit, *shit*!

“I don’t wanna hear you yanking your junk, faggot!”

“What can I say?” Kurt replied flatly. “I will stop short of nothing to piss off your homophobic ass, Karofsky.” He laughed and Dave’s face grew even redder, if that was possible. Princess thought this was funny? Fuck him. Fuck him to hell.

Another moan. “Oooh yeah.”

Dave's cock twitched. No. No. No! He bit down on the inside of his cheek. Anything to distract his fucking body, his sick body, always betraying him. He was not a homo!

But it always fucking came down to this, didn’t it? His heart was pounding too fast. No. Had to hold off the panic. Give into the panic and you might never come down again. Why, why, why did it always come down to this? Why couldn't he ever escape? Trapped on a bed with a nameless man, trapped in a house with a short-term father, trapped in a ten by ten box with his homo cellmate. What was it about him that they always, always found him?!

 

“What, don’t you like it? I like it. I like it *a lot*.”

Dave sat there in silence, staring straight ahead, hugging himself tightly as he pretended to watch the TV. Fuck the bastard. He wanted a reaction? He could go to hell.

“Mmmmm, that feels goood. You do this, David? Of course you do. You’re a boy. All boys do this.” Loud laughter. “Aw, aren’t you cute? Fourteen with an attitude. Come on, take a look. You know you want to.”

He wanted the bastard to put his dick back in his pants and let him watch the fucking movie. God, he hated foster homes.

 

“Dammit, homo! Will you please stop?!” Dave’s voice came out a little higher than usual and he gritted his teeth. The sound of pitiful desperation. So. Not. Cool.

He had to get back in control. He should just turn around and beat the bitch down. He didn’t have to just stand there. He didn’t. He was in control. There was no reason to panic. Just because he was locked in with the faggot didn’t mean he wasn’t in control. It was just a cell. Just a cell. He wasn’t tied down. He was bigger than Fancy. And the queer didn't have any tricky cards up his sleeves to play if Dave decided to fight. There was nothing keeping him from just knocking the princess senseless. No reason to panic. He wasn’t trapped. He *wasn’t*.

Dave made a small sound of distress.

A giggle came from behind him, building up into a full fledged laugh. What the fuck?

He didn’t want to look. He didn’t. But why was he laughing? Did he think it was so fucking funny? Of course he did. They always thought it was so fucking funny.

There was a gentle weight on his shoulder and Dave stumbled away from it, blinking in confusion as he turned around to see a smirking, fully dressed Kurt standing behind him.

What…? What the fuck?

Kurt giggled again, shaking his head, eyes filled with amusement. “You know, Dave," he said, laughter in his voice, "believe it or not, we are't *all* cavemen who must instantly answer the call of our bodies or die of blue ball syndrome. Some of us more developed beings have an interesting anomaly in our genes that they call ‘self-control.’” He laughed again and Dave's face burned in humiliation.

The little bitch, making him feel… making him… Dammit!

Dave lashed out suddenly, shoving Kurt hard, sending the smaller boy tumbling back onto his bunk, his eyes wide.

”Not funny, faggot! It’s not funny!” Sweat was building up on his temple and he wiped it away, swallowing down the sick feeling in his stomach. “You think you’re so funny? Fuck you! Fuck you! I don’t want nothing to do with that shit! Who the hell are you to get all tearful in the shower then come and flash your junk at me, homo? Got me trapped here and now you have your chance, is that it?! Can’t fucking escape,” Dave smacked one of the bars, “so it’s time to put the finishing touch on your faggy plans to put me down?”

Kurt stared up at him, looking a little shocked. “Dave… I was just kidding…”

Dave sucked in a deep breath, clenching his fists. God, he’d love to put one in someone’s face right now. But the only someone available was staring up at him with those pretty fucking eyes… Dammit!

Dave turned and slammed his fist into the wall. The pain would help beat down the panic. Not trapped. He wasn't trapped. 

Dave yanked off his bandana and flung it to the ground, running his hands through his hair as he took deep, steady breaths. The last traces of panic were saying their farewells, but the fucking feeling between his legs was still there. Why was the faggot doing this to him?! Why did he want to make Dave feel like a sick fucking homo?! Why? Was this revenge?

He spun around, face tight. “This you getting back at me, Hummel? Huh? I mess with you, you mess with me? ‘Cause that ain’t happening! Flaunt it all you want. I will fucking slit my own throat before I let you put your fag hands on me!”

Kurt opened and shut his mouth, looking a little stunned. “Dave… Dave, I’m sorry! I was just kidding. I wasn’t actually doing *anything,* okay?” He held up his hands. “I wasn’t trying to… get back at you? I didn’t mean to upset you so much. It was just a joke…”

A joke? Is that what he was to him? A big fucking joke? Is that how he got his laughs, tearing Dave down, piece by piece with his pretty smiles and his stupid little bow ties and his cute dance moves?

“Who the fuck do you think you are? You call me the bully?” Dave gave a choked laugh. “I say you’re the bully, with all your faggy crap—the joke’s on Dave! I just wanna be left the fuck alone! Is that so much to ask for? That's all I ever asked for! For them all to leave. Me. Alone! But they never do.” He moved over to Kurt’s bunk, grabbing the boy by the front of his shirt and hauling him to his feet, staring hard into those frightened eyes, shaking those delicate shoulders a little. “Please, just give me a straight answer, Hummel! Do the one thing nobody else has ever done. Just tell me why they can’t all just leave me *alone*?! Why the hell do have to be up in my face all the time, prancing around, looking all fancy? Making me think weird shit? Messing with me? Why can’t you just leave me alone?!”

Kurt stared at him for a long moment, then his tongue flickered out, licking his lips nervously. Dave flinched as the memory of their faces pressed together flashed through his mind. Fucking lips.

“Dave… I’m sorry. I… don’t try to make you think anything. I’m not trying to hurt you. I was never trying to hurt you.” He hesitated for a moment then reached out, laying a hand on Dave’s arm.

Dave flinched slightly but didn’t push him away. Let the homo touch him. Who gave a fuck? He *was* trapped. And it didn't have anything to do with this fucking cell. He couldn’t protect himself. He never could. Not from them then and not from this pretty little bitch now.

How the hell had some scrawny little queen gotten so much power over him? Dammit! There was just something about him... He just couldn't hurt him. He couldn't. Not the little princess. And Dave had learned young that if you weren’t willing to hurt them, it just meant that they could hurt you. And they would. And you would just let them. Because there was nothing else you could do.

*That's* when you were *really* trapped.

“Dave, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize you would be so sensitive—”

“I’m not sensitive,” Dave cut in sharply. He was fucking tough, not sensitive. Not some whining, crying bitch. “I’m not a girl, homo.”

Kurt shook his head. “Okay, I just meant, I really didn’t mean to freak you out. Please, please don’t think I’ve been trying to hurt you. I don’t really understand how you feel about me, but I never meant to, I don’t know... lead you on? Is that how you feel? Honestly, I never really thought much about you at all until you started shoving me into lockers constantly. And then, well, I was just pissed off. Okay?”

Okay? Was the fag really claiming he didn’t know what he did to Dave? If he didn’t know how bad it hurt him, then why did he *do* it?

“I know you hate… gay men. And I know that day in the locker room must have really freaked you out.” Kurt shook his head. “But I didn’t mean for it to happen, and neither did you. So why don’t we just, I don’t know, try and pretend it never happened?”

Dave stared at him for a moment then let out a bitter laugh, abruptly collapsing onto his bunk, dropping his head into his hands. As if he hadn't tried that. “Yeah, well, Fancy, that ain’t working so well for me, okay?”

Kurt leaned over, his arm brushing Dave's shoulder, and his breath caught. He stared up at the smaller boy. His face hadn't changed. Nothing had changed. Was he really... was he really innocent?

Did the homo really not know what he did to him? No. It couldn't be true. Kurt was lying. He had to be. He *had* to be doing it on purpose. He couldn’t really be that oblivious to the way his hips swayed, the way his eyelashes fluttered, the way his cheeks dimpled. He couldn’t. Because if he was, then it really was just Dave.

Was it really just Dave?

No. No, no, no. It couldn’t just be him. Because that was sick. And he wasn’t sick. He wasn’t. He wasn’t a sick faggot. He didn’t want it. It was sick. He didn’t… He couldn’t… He…

Dave looked back up into Kurt's face. He was just so damn pretty. Fucking Fancy.

Oh, God.

Dave blinked rapidly, hugging himself. “I don’t want to be sick,” he said miserably. “I… I don’t want it. I don’t want to be sick. I can’t… I can’t be sick.” Because then it would be true. All of it. True.

No. He couldn't be sick. It couldn't be true.

 

For fuck’s sake, how many was that tonight, boy?” When Dave didn’t answer his Pops reached out and smacked him across the face. “I’m talkin’ to you! How many?”

“Six,” he said, voice dull and hoarse. He hurt all over, his ass was burning like someone had shoved a flamethrower up there, and his mouth tasted like sex and sweat.

“Fucking sick. Why the hell do I ever let you live under my roof? If you weren’t my son, I’d shoot you in the head just for being such a sick little faggot. And you barely earned me two hundred bucks. How the hell we gonna pay the rent if you keep turning ‘em for so damn cheap? You like it so much that you wanna spread it out? That it, you sick little slut?”

“I-I tried to charge forty, I swear. I just… I didn’t always get it—”

“Shut the fuck up, boy. I don’t want to hear your fucking excuses. And don’t look at me like that, all pitiful. Sick one like you would sure as hell be out there getting some anyway, so you might as well bring home the cash for your slut efforts. Sick little cocksucker.” He shoved Dave out of the way, popping the top off his beer as he headed toward the apartment’s one bedroom. “Now get the hell outta my way. I wanna go to bed.”

“G’night, Pops,” Dave said quietly. The door slammed shut behind him. "Love ya."

 

 

“Dave, you’re not sick.” Kurt sank down next to him on the bed, leaning his small frame against Dave’s shoulder.

His stomach turned. He should shove the little bitch onto the floor. Kick his homo head in. Show him what happened when you fucked around with Dave Karofsky. Show Fancy just how tough he really was.

“I liked it.” It took a moment for Dave to recognize his own voice. Had he really just said that? Oh, God. “When you kissed—when *I* kissed you, I liked it. I-I liked it.” His voice cracked slightly and he tried to swallow, his mouth suddenly so, so dry. He turned toward Kurt, staring him down. “Tell me how that’s not sick, Hummel. *You* thought I was sick. I could see it all over your face. When I kissed you. Like you’d never seen anything so disgusting in your life. Like maybe I gave you a disease or something.” He gave a choked laugh. “I don’t wanna be sick. But every fucking time I look at you, I get sick thoughts. But if I *am* sick, then he was right all along. Every time. Every fucking time some dude touched me… I wanted it. Deep down, I wanted it. I really *was* begging for it. Because I’m sick like that.”

God, It felt nice, Fancy pressed up against him, their knees touching, those thin fingers brushing Dave’s. It felt so, so nice.

He was so fucking sick.

“Dave, I didn’t think you were sick.” Kurt sounded shocked. “Crazy, maybe, since all you’d ever done before then was push me around and, suddenly, you’re kissing me. But I didn’t think you were sick. You’re not sick. I…” There was a pause and Kurt brushed a hand along Dave’s face.

Dave would have broken anybody else’s fingers for doing that.

“I liked it, too,” Kurt said quietly, blushing. “And that didn’t make me happy. Not because you were sick but because you were a bully and I was supposed to hate you but every time I closed my eyes that kiss would just play over and over and over. And I tried to pretend that I *didn’t* like it, that it was just because I’d never been kissed before. But… I liked it too. It’s not sick. And liking a kiss doesn’t mean that you’re sick. Or that you wanted… whatever happened to you. Okay? That’s not how it works. It’s different, Dave. I promise, it’s different.”

There was a long silence then Dave spoke, voice quiet. “Everybody talks about their first time like it’s some big deal. Shit, when Azimio got laid for the first time he wouldn’t shut up about it. You’d have thought he’d won the damn lottery.” He let out a bitter laugh. “I don’t even remember my first time. It’s all just kind of a blur. And it’s confusing, because I didn’t always know what it was, y'know?”

Kurt wrapped his hand around Dave's, squeezing gently. “I don't understand.”

Dave shrugged. “I didn't know what it was. I mean, nobody sat down with me and was, like, ‘Okay, Dave, we’re gonna have sex now.’ Things just happened and I didn’t know what it was. I was a kid. I think sometimes people forget that you aren’t born knowing what it means to fuck. It was just something that they did to my body. I had no control. The first time the state took me from my Pops, they asked me why I never told anybody. But how are you supposed to tell someone about something if you don’t even know what it is?” He licked his lips nervously as he stared into Kurt’s eyes. “And when I kissed you… I didn’t know what it was. It was… out of my control.” He gestured vaguely toward himself. Why were his eyes watering? “This, all of this, is out of my control. What are these feelings? I don’t know. I don’t understand.”

He choked slightly and bent forward, shoulders tight. Kurt’s arm wrapped around him. It felt safe. Why did it feel safe? This was Dangerous. There was Danger in these feelings.

“I don’t know what’s happening and I don’t know why’s it’s happening and I tried to pretend it was you who was doing it.” Dave choked again, a quiet sobbing sound coming from him. “But you’re right. You’re fucking right. It’s me. It’s me, but I don’t know what I’m doing or what I’m supposed to do, or even what to call it.

"What is this? Why is it happening? What do I do now? It’s like I’m a little kid again and there’s this weight on me and it won’t get off and it makes me hurt and I don’t know what or how or why… And I don’t want to fight it ‘cause if I do the hurt might go away but the warmth might too. And then I’ll be all alone. Which is what I want. To be left alone. But I don’t really want to *be* alone. But I don’t think I can have both, and I have to choose. And I don’t know what the hurt is or why it happens to me or what I did to make it happen, but I can be tough. I was tough. I was so tough. I didn’t even cry. And now… now it’s like it’s happening again. Just when I had things figured out, that weight is back and I don’t know what it is and I’m afraid it will hurt but I just don’t know and all I can do is wait, ‘cause it’s happening and I can’t stop it. Because this time the weight is me. It’s all me.”

A sob filled Dave’s throat. There were tears on his face. Where did they come from? He didn’t cry. What the hell was wrong with him? What the fuck was he doing, sitting here crying like some little bitch into Fancy’s arms? And why did it feel so good? Why, why, why?

“Shhhh, hey, it’s okay, Dave… It… Oh, God… I-it’s o-okay.” Kurt’s voice cracked and Dave swallowed down the sobs as he looked up, blinking away tears. He flinched. The way Kurt was looking at him…

He saw it now, how sick Dave was. He’d have to be blind not to. Who wouldn’t be disgusted, knowing that someone like Dave felt that way about him? Dave was through lying to himself. Homo or not, Kurt had never been the sick one. It had always been him. Always. And it always would be.

Dave grabbed at the hem of his shirt, wiping almost violently at his eyes. This was insane. He didn’t cry. He was tougher than that. He had to be tough. If he wanted to survive, he had to be tough.

Of course, that was based on the assumption that he wanted to survive.

“You need… you need to stay away from me,” he said hoarsely, not looking at Kurt. “You need to stay away from me. This… this is wrong. It’s wrong. It was never you. It was always me. We… we’ll deal with this weekend and we’ll get you out of here. And then you’ll never have to see me again. I promise. You will never see me again.”

“Dave,” Kurt said, voice choked. “Dave, look at me.”

Dave turned his face away. He didn’t want to look. He didn’t want to see the disgust in those eyes. Not again. That image had been burned into his mind the first time he pressed his lips against Kurt’s. He didn’t need a reminder.

“Dave, look at me.” Kurt suddenly appeared in front of him, kneeling down and cupping Dave’s face in his hands.

Why was Fancy crying? What had he done to make him cry? He hadn’t even hurt him. He didn’t even want to hurt him. But he had, somehow. Everywhere he went, hurt followed.

“Dave,” Kurt said, voice prim even through the hoarseness. “I swear to God that if you try and make good on that promise I will shave your head in your sleep. And, coming from me, that is the ultimate threat. I don’t know who you think you are, trying to ditch me now, but it’s not happening. You were my first kiss. And that’s special. I can’t say that I fully understand what this is either. But I do know what I want to do now. I know that.”

He smiled gently and Dave shuddered a little as Kurt leaned in, laying a soft kiss on his lips. So warm. So gentle. So safe.

Dave made a small sound as Kurt pulled back and the smaller boy wrapped his arms around Dave’s neck, his breath soft against his skin. They stayed like that for a long moment, then Kurt broke the silence, voice soft. “And maybe we’ll just try and figure it out from there, okay? I’ll help you, okay? You won’t be alone anymore. We’ll figure it out together.”

Together. Together was Dangerous. Relying on anyone but yourself was Dangerous. That feeling of safety when Kurt wrapped his arms around him--there was Danger there. You had to be tough. Expect nothing from anyone. Only the tough survived.

But that was based on the assumption that he wanted to survive. All alone.

There was a loud buzzing sound and the cell lock clanked open. “Okay, boys,” came a voice over the loudspeaker. “Breakfast in ten. Get to the cafeteria.”

Kurt let out a nervous little laugh as he released Dave, wincing as one of the dozens of boys who had just poured into the hallway made a crude motion. “This, of course, all depends on whether or not I make it through breakfast.”

Dave gave him a reassuring smile. He would keep the Danger away from Kurt. He would do everything he could to keep him safe. And if he wasn't tough enough to survive the gentle Danger sitting in front of him, at least he would be the only one who got hurt. “Don’t worry, Fancy. I’ll take care of you.”


	8. Dickhead

“Dude. There is a towel. On your head.” Dave smirked as he shoveled a spoonful of oatmeal into his mouth, raising an eyebrow in Puck’s direction. “You look like Mohammed.”

Puck didn’t bother to raise his head from the table, just letting out a little ‘hm’ of annoyance. Kurt frowned deeply. Puck letting a diss pass unnoticed was like a crocodile making love to a sheep—unheard of and somewhat disturbing.

“Seriously, Puck, are you okay?”

“Go awaaay,” he practically moaned, turning his head just enough to glare at Kurt across the table. “Just go. The fuck. Away.”

Dave snorted. “Dude, you so do not want us to go away. I know Jesus Garcia already stole your breakfast. You want him to come back and get your virginity, too?” Dave cocked his head to the side, mouth forming a little ‘o’. “You know what? That would actually be pretty fuckin’ hilarious.” He grinned wickedly as he moved to pick up his tray. “C’mon, pretty pants. Let’s go.”

“I’m not a goddamn virgin, Karofsky,” Puck snapped back as Kurt grabbed Dave’s arm and yanked him back down with a glare. “Remember the whole Baby Gate thing? Quinn? Mohawk child?”

Dave raised en eyebrow. “You were the one who knocked her up? I figured it was the wheelchair kid—you know those Christians are really into community service.”

Kurt rolled his eyes then reached across the table, squeezing Puck’s arm. “Puck, what’s wrong? And why do you have a towel on your head?”

“‘Cause he wants to be Achmed the Dead Terrorist,” Dave said, voice a little muffled as he shoved food into it at a frightening rate.

Kurt frowned as he watched the other boy. How could he just seem so… normal? Had Kurt just dreamed the whole ‘having a complete breakdown in your arms’ thing? Because this crude, rude Neanderthal sure didn’t seem much like the boy that had been choking down tears a couple of hours ago. He was definitely good at playing normal.

It kind of made Kurt wonder just how much practice Dave had.

Puck let out an exasperated sigh as he sat up, glaring at Dave with red eyes. “Oh, fuck you, Karofsky. It’s your fault Hummel and I are even in here, you fat bastard.”

Dave shook his head. “Dude. You hit me in the head with a trophy. And Fancy over there broke my damn nose. With a textbook. And this is *my* fault?” An enormous fork load of runny eggs entered Dave’s mouth, making Kurt grimace as he looked down at his own wet mess of yellow in disgust.

The catering here was seriously lacking.

“Are these eggs even cooked?”

Dave flashed him a lopsided grin. “Guess we’ll know for sure when I get Salmonella poisoning, yeah?”

Kurt pointed at him with his cheap, plastic fork. “Food borne illnesses are nothing to joke about, Dave.”

The big boy just rolled his eyes and reached over the table, raking up a fork full of Kurt’s eggs and shoving the into his mouth with a satisfied smile.

“Hey, if woo don’ wan’ ‘em I’wl eat ‘em.”

Good God, Ms. Manners would *die.*

“Didn’t your mother ever teach you not to talk with your mouth full?” Kurt questioned. It was times like this he really wished he liked girls. Why in the world did boys have to be so caveman-like about everything they did?

Dave shrugged. “Nah. But she taught me that when someone says ‘just stay here, I’ll be back in a few minutes’ then leaves you sitting in a dressing room at Macy’s, well, they’re probably not coming back.”

Dave let out a loud laugh, then rolled his eyes again when Kurt stared at him, a shocked look on his face.

“Oh, will you lighten up? I’m just kidding, okay? She didn't tell me she'd be back and ditch me in a dressing room.”

Kurt relaxed slightly. Thank God.

“She told me she wasn’t coming back and that I should go find a salesperson after she was gone. But, no.” He shoveled half a piece of toast into his mouth at once. “No one eva tawt me not to tawlk wid my moudth fuwll.” He swallowed and grinned, flashing teeth. “Of course, it’s not really a problem if they don’t feed you.”

Really, life had been a lot easier *before* he and Dave had been literate to one another. Saying ‘shut up, hamhock’ was a lot easier than figuring out how to reply to some of the things that boy said. It was sort of like talking to Britt. What *did* you say when someone informed you that a tomato wasn’t a fruit, it was a gay vegetable?

Move along.

“I’m just saying, the bacteria in raw eggs—”

“Seriously, princess,” Dave interrupted, sounding a little annoyed as he took another bite of toast. “I’ve eaten out of trash bags that have been sitting on the fucking curb for a week. I’m really not worried about some eggs, okay?” He leaned forward, lowering his voice as he glanced surreptitiously around them. “And please try to hold back on the whole arguing with me in public shit, okay, Lady? 

“I know that restraining your tendency to be the ultimate bitch 24/7 is tough and that I’m probably somewhere between Saddam Hussein, George W. Bush, and Vanilla Ice on your Most Respected People list, but at least pretend you got some fear for me, if you can’t pull off respect, okay? I do not want these guys to start messin’ with me again, okay? So just chill out over the eggs already and use those Broadway skills of yours to act like you’re something other than a self-righteous bitch, alright?”

Excuse him?! Kurt leaned forward, face reddening. “Oh, I’m a self-righteous bitch now, am I?”

“Yes,” Puck said dryly, earning himself a glare from both of the boys before Kurt turned his attention back on Dave.

“Forgive me, tough guy, for worrying about what sort of diseases I could get in this filthy hole—”

“Eggs don’t carry STDs, Pretty,” Dave snapped. “Random guys who jump you in the night do. You’re free to take your pick, but I’m going with the eggs.”

“God, will you two just shut the hell up?” Puck moaned, dropping his head back onto the table with a bang, then lifting it up just enough to bang it down again. “When did you two become the Lucy and Ricky show?” Head up, back down with a bang. “God, I wanna go home.” Up, down with a bang.

“So click your heels three times and see what happens,” Kurt snapped at him, annoyed.

Dave laughed. “There’s no place like home. There’s no place like home. There’s no place like—”

“Really, Puck, what’s the matter?” Kurt cut in, frowning. “Did someone hurt you?” Oh, God. A very bad image flashed through his mind. Surely not. Puck was all tough attitude and badassness. They couldn’t have… “Oh my God, did someone rape you, Puck?”

His voice came out a little louder than he had meant it to and the guys at the table next to them began to laugh, causing Puck to sit up and glare.

“Dammit, Kurt!” he said, glaring at him. “Thanks for that!”

“Oh, Puck, they didn't… Well… You know.” Kurt made the subtlest gesture he could, which was apparently not subtle enough because it made Dave spew his milk, choked laughter coming from him.

“Fancy, if someone had stuck their key in Puck’s ignition, we’d know it. King Bad Ass may play tough, but he ain’t near hardcore enough to play it straight if he’d just been fucked up the butt.”

Puck smacked a hand down on the table, then grabbed a little frantically at the towel on his head as it began to slip. “Dude, no, I didn’t get raped! What kinda question is that? I’m a guy, Hummel!”

“So is the Prince of Glitter and Rhinestones over there,” Dave said dryly, looking amused when Puck glared at him.

“You know what I mean, meathead!” He scowled, turning his attention back to Kurt. “I’m fine, okay? My cell mate is just a motherfucker. Every time I fell asleep, he’d steal more of my stuff. Took my shoes, my socks, my damn toilet paper.” His eyes narrowed. “My *razor.*”

Dave raised an eyebrow, looking Puck up and down with sudden interest. “Your razor, huh? Hm…” A wicked look passed over his face and Puck paled a little. “I wonder…” Without warning he yanked the towel off of Puck’s head, causing the other boy to shout and wrap his arms over his head with a very un-Pucklike shriek.

“Lemme see here,” Dave said, tonguing his cheek in amusement as he grabbed at Puck’s arms.

“Stop it, Dave!” Kurt said, reaching out to try and pull the bigger boy away as he yanked down Puck’s much-loved ‘guns’, revealing his head… and the stripe shaved into his mohawk. The stripe with a slightly larger tip and two lumps at the end.

Oh, dear Lord in Heaven. Kurt may have been an atheist but he was going to have to look up the religion that preached on karma. Because it looked like karma had just come back and bitten Noah Puckerman in the balls.

Dave was rocking back and forth, he was laughing so hard, shaking his head in disbelief. “Oh my fuckin’ God. Looks like all those times you called me Penis Head in the locker room has finally come back to haunt you, huh, hoe-hawk?”

“Go. To. Hell,” Puck said through gritted teeth, looking like he wanted the floor to open up and swallow him down to the burning core of the Earth.

Kurt squeezed his eyes shut then opened them again. Nope, still there. It was worth another try though… Still there. So this *was* reality. Wow.

Okay, it was not the time to laugh. He should not laugh. It would not be nice to laugh.

Kurt burst into laughter, bringing tears to his eyes, he was laughing so hard. “Puck, why do you have—” he cut off as he hiccuped a little, “why do you have a *penis* shaved into your mohawk?”

“‘Cause he let his guard down, that’s why,” Dave said as his laughter winded down, a big grin on his face. “You’re lucky they just put a dick on your head and not down your throat, Suck-a-Man.”

Kurt choked back his laughter. “Okay. Considering all the times that you’ve put me in Dumpsters, I should really be rejoicing right now. And, I must admit, the urge to further humiliate you is great. But I will restrain myself and be the better person—”

Puck sighed loudly, throwing up his hands. “Oh, just do it already. I would.”

Kurt burst into laughter again. “Oh my God, there’s a dick on your head. My theory that you are a complete and utter dickhead has, indeed, been proven true! God bless the scientific method!”

Dave began to laugh, smacking a palm down on the table. “Hell, yeah.”

“Now all he has to do is prove you’re the Missing Link,” Puck shot back, scowling. “That shouldn’t be hard. You're big and stupid enough, anyway.”

Dave’s laughter cut off as he leaned forward, glaring at Puck. “Oh, yeah?” He raised his fist. “How about I put my bigness to good use against your face?”

“Guys,” Kurt said as he swallowed down another hiccup. “Will you two stop it? God, Puck… why didn’t you shave it off in the shower?!”

The other boy leaned back in his chair, pouting a little as he crossed his arms over his chest. “Because he stole my damn razor and nobody would lend me one. The asshole.”

“Well, maybe you could offer to shove your dickhead into the assholes' assholes—” Dave cut off as Puck swung at him and he caught the punch in one big hand, gritting his teeth as he pushed Puck’s fist back. “You wanna mess with me you son of a—”

There was a slam against the table as a guard walked up and banged his stick down hard, grinning in a cruel sort of way. “Hello, boys. Having a good time?”

Dave shoved Puck away and leaned back, scowling. “Hey, Martin, since when do you interrupt my fun?”

The guard raised an eyebrow at Puck. “Nice ‘do, kid." He turned back to Dave. "Yeah, sorry to ruin your good times, Big D, but you boys got yourselves some visitors.” He shook his head, looking a little disbelieving. “A *lot* of visitors. Had to let ‘em use the conference room, you got so many. Usually they only let in family members. But unless one of you boys is a Mormon with several mommas, these ain’t your brothers and sisters.”

“Oh, hell no,” Puck muttered, reaching up to rub at his penis-hawk. “I can’t go in like this! I’ll lose my bad ass factor forever!”

Really, Puck was lucky that Kurt was such a good person. It really *would* be karma to let his Great Sex Sharkness prance into a room full of friends with a cock shaved on his head.

“Dave, will you give him your bandanna?” Kurt asked. “Just until he can use my razor?”

The big boy let out a harsh laugh, glaring in Puck’s direction. “Uh-uh. Screw that. Let dickhead get a taste of his own bullshit. He deserves it.”

Kurt sighed. “Please, Dave?” 

Puck glanced between them, raising an eyebrow. “Seriously, when did you two become so buddy buddy?”

Kurt ignored him, staring at Dave, who threw his hands up, looking exasperated. “C’mon, Fancy. He calls me David Copperfield. And Sidekick McFaggot. And Token Poor Kid. Why the hell should I do shit for him?”

“We all know that Puck is a jerk,” Kurt said dryly. “Sometimes it gets so bad that I wonder if it’s actually a form of retardation. But he has a good heart. Usually. Sometimes. Probably.”

“He peed in my skates in seventh grade.”

“Please?”

“He dyed my jockstrap hot pink. I had to wear it for a month ‘cause I couldn’t afford a new one.”

“Just for a few hours.”

“Last week he taped a carboard cut out of Santa, drew a raindeer fucking him up the butt, and wrote KAROFSKY on the forehead.”

“Dude, that was totally Finn.”

Dave sneered. “Bullshit. Hudson can’t spell my last name, Puckerman. You and I both know that three syllables is beyond him.”

Kurt shook his head. Were *all* jocks complete assholes? Weren’t they even nice to each other? Didn’t they have any sense of, like, group unity or family dynamic or whatever?

“Dave. Please.”

Dave stared at him for a long moment, the look on his face so hard that Kurt actually wondered for a instant if the other boy was about to dump Kurt’s eggs on his head, then he yanked the bandanna off his head almost violently, tossing it in Puck’s face.

“You owe me one, homo. And you, too, Fuck-a-man.” Dave shoved his now empty breakfast tray away and stood, looking annoyed. “I’ll wait for you in the rec room, ‘kay Sparkles?”

“Hold your horses, big boy,” the guard—Martin?—said, reaching out to block Dave from walking off. “You got visitors too. Your fat ass is also expected in the conference room.”

Dave stopped abruptly and sucked in a sharp breath, turning slowly to look at the guard. “He… he’s here already?” A look of fear flashed across his paling face. “I… I don’t wanna see him. I don’t wanna hear him bitch about how he’s gonna pay some bastard to kill me if I get stuck behind bars and lose him his goddamn welfare check, okay?” He pushed past the guard. “Screw him.”

The guard snorted and grabbed at Dave’s shirt, tugging him back. “Unless you’ve been visiting Michael Jackson’s dermatologist lately, this ain’t your daddy, son. It’s a couple of black people dressed up like they’re going to a wedding-slash-funeral with a fat ass kid wearing two hundred dollars sneakers and a smart ass look on his face.” He shrugged. “Apparently that’s how they got the whole lot of ‘em in instead of just the family. Black Guy Senior is some kind of politician or something. Sure dresses like one. Who the hell wears ties anymore?”

“People with fashion sense,” Kurt said primly, sniffing. “I guess Azimio is here to see you, Dave.” He smiled, then frowned when the other boy just stared at nothing, eyes wide and face a little shocked. “Dave? Hellooo, Dave?” He reached up, waving a hand in front of the other boy's face, causing him to jump, blinking rapidly.

“The Adams are here?” Dave’s voice sounded a little frantic. What was wrong with Azimio coming to see him? Shouldn’t he be happy?

“You don’t want to see Azimio?” Kurt questioned, raising an eyebrow. “I thought you two were BFFs or whatever the jock version of being attached at the hip is. Bros?”

Dave shook his head rapidly. “Uh-uh. This is not good. Mr. and Mrs. Adams can’t be here. No. I worked too hard so that they’d never know… Oh, God, when Azimio finds out…” His face suddenly twisted and he slammed a fist down onto the table, causing Kurt to jump, eyes wide.

“Dave! What’s wrong?”

Dave leaned against the table, shooting Kurt a bad impression of his usual glare. “How is it you manage to fuck up everything in my life, Fancy? First school. Then… then… oh God, I don’t even wanna… Now, Azimio. He’s the only fucking friend I have! And now that will be gone too. Fuck!”

“Dude, how is anything *Kurt’s* fault, exactly?” Puck said, actually looking amused, which kind of pissed Kurt off, despite the fact that Dickhawk was actually standing up for him. Did he find Dave’s pain *funny*? Because Kurt sure didn’t. Asshole. “And Azimio’s not your only friend, dude. I’m your friend. Hudson’s your friend. Mike and James and Dan and Trevor are all your friends.”

Dave looked at him in disbelief. “You’re my *friend*? My *friend*? When have you ever been a fucking friend to me, Puckerman? First day we met, you made fun of me for being on the free lunch program, then you *stole* my lunch! And then you dumped it in the *trash*! I was living in a house with six other foster kids and had to fight to get some Cheez-Its and apple sauce for dinner! That was the only full meal I’d had in a week!”

Puck’s eyes widened slightly. “Yo, man, I didn’t mean anything by it. I was just messin’ with you. We had good times together. Remember when Ricky Darson passed out on the couch and we duct taped his balls? That was fun.”

Dave snorted. “And if one day I just didn’t show up at school and never came back, would you even notice, Puckerman? And if you did notice, would you care?”

Puck looked a little uncomfortable. “…Well, it’s not like we’re best friends or anything…”

“You know what? Why the hell should I think you know what friendship is? You knocked up your best bud’s girlfriend. And you may keep it on the down low so that your little Gleek family won’t get pissed, but don’t think I don’t know it was you who TP’d Barbara Hobbit’s house last Saturday. Greg was with you and he told me.”

Kurt’s mouth dropped open. “You still help them TP our houses?”

Puck gave a little shrug. “What? It’s fun. They’d do it anyway, so why not go with ‘em?”

“Your moral reasoning would make Pontius Pilate weep,” Kurt said shortly, then turned his attention back on the other boy. “What’s wrong with Azimio being here to see you, Dave?”

Dave mumbled something, voice muffled as he rubbed at his face.

“What?”

“I told them my Pops is a truck driver, okay?” he snapped, glaring at Kurt. “And so he’s not home much, that’s why they never see him. And that my mom lives in California with my step-dad. And that we have, like, dad-son time and go fishing together. And that we’re, like, sort of poor but happy ‘cause money doesn’t matter or whatever bullshit rich people like to hear.” He let out an irritated sigh. “I mean, it’s not like I could tell them the truth! His grandpa’s, like, a Senator and his dad’s on the city council! If they knew where I was really from, they’d probably be too afraid I’d steal their TV or something to let me in their overpriced mansion of a house.”

Puck snorted. “What, Az thinks you have a happy family? Dude, it’s obvious somebody beats the shit out of you. Your back was all, like, messed up last month. Looked like my Aunt Shelly’s did every time her boyfriend would get drunk. And dude—there was no way that you spilt so much coffee on your hands that they swelled up to, like, twice their normal size and were covered in blisters.”

Dave shot him a look. “Puckerman, they all believed the coffee thing. And that I get into a lot of fights. *You’re* just a fuck up.”

Puck shrugged. “Yeah, I guess the kids at McKinley are kinda naive. Two point five children and a picket fence and all that. But then my dad wasn’t exactly the nicest dude when he went all ‘rockstar’ and got his drunk on. I mean, I don’t really remember him much, but I know that’s why my mom kicked him out and why he doesn’t come around much.”

“Fuck this," Dave muttered. "I don’t wanna see them.”

“Dude, there is no way they could have missed the fact that you’re painfully poor.” Puck flashed a grin. “You make me feel rich, Karofsky. That’s why it’s so much fun to steal your backpack and dump all your school supplies down the toilet.”

“Oh for God’s sake!” Kurt snapped. “What is *wrong* with you people?! Dave, if Azimio is your friend then why would he care how poor you are? And how, exactly, is it fun to steal things from someone who can’t afford them, Puck?”

“It makes him pissed and then his face turns this crazy shade of red and he starts kicking things and it’s funny.”

Kurt blinked. “Excuse me?”

Puck shrugged. “That’s why it’s fun to steal his stuff and ruin it.”

“Puck,” Kurt said through gritted teeth, “it was a rhetorical question. Meant to highlight the immorality of the things you do.”

“Fancy, quit trying to teach Puckerman morals. He’s an asshole. It’s, like, his self-identity. The definition of a lost cause.”

“Do you boys wanna go see your extended family of multiple ethnicities or not?” the guard questioned as he grabbed a sausage off of Kurt’s tray and stuffed it in his mouth. “‘Cause the Vistor Express is leaving and if you wanna see all your little friends, I suggest you hop on.”

Dave just glared and Kurt let out a sigh. “Dave, really. They’re here to see you. If you don’t go see them, I’m sure they’ll just worry.”

The other boy let out a little groan, rubbing tiredly at the back of his neck. “Yeah, okay, whatever. Let’s get our visit on. God help me.”

“Maybe you can tell them your dad died in hurricane Katrina and you had to join the circus freak show. That might explain your fat ass, at least. The Incredible Fatboy.”

“Shut your goddamn mouth Puckerman, or I’ll reveal your dickhead to the world.”

“That threat won’t last forever, y’know,” Puck retorted. “I’m gonna shave it off later.”

Dave sneered. “Then I’ll just reveal your other dickhead to the world. Before I rip it off and stuff it down your throat.”


	9. Strength of a Father

“Oh, God, Kurt!”

One step in the doorway and Fancy’s dad was all over him, grabbing the delicate looking boy and wrapping his arms around him, lifting him up until he was almost in the air. “Oh, Kurt. I love you so much.”

Dave grimaced as he slunk around them, shoulders hunching as he sidestepped the hugging pair. He so didn’t get that. It was so… intimate. And disturbing. Yet it made the little princess light up like a fucking flashlight.

Burt Hummel was way, way too close for comfort in Dave’s mind, but then he’d never been comfortable around older men. Honestly, that was part of the reason he liked sports so much. He didn’t like to be touched but it gave him an excuse to touch other people, like when he and Az would slushy some loser in the hallway, and then he’d wrap an arm around the other boy’s big shoulders. It just made him less… lonely. But if someone touched *him*… it just made him want to swing.

And dudes as old as Kurt’s dad just made him feel sick to his stomach. Which was why he always made sure to take a healthy dose of liquor with him when he went… out to work.

“Dave!” He jumped slightly as he heard his name called, head jerking as he scanned the room. Mr. Schuester was there, and Hudson, his throat sporting deep bruises, and his hobbit girlfriend, and the fat black chick Kurt loved so much, and Hudson’s mom, too. Carole. Dave liked Carole. In fifth grade he had gone over to Hudson’s house after school and she had given them Pop Tarts. He’d never actually seen Pop Tarts before and, apparently, had not done a good job hiding his excitement because, for the rest of the year, she had sent Pop Tarts to school with Hudson to give to Dave.

He blushed and dropped his gaze as his eyes met hers. She had given him Pop Tarts. And he had almost killed her son.

God, he was such a fuck up.

He made his way over toward the Adams, shoulders slumped. He really did not want to do this.

“Dave, dude, how are you?” Azimio called out as he stood, moving around the table to meet Dave halfway, looking worried as walked up to the other boy, reaching toward Dave but not actually touching him.

Yeah, Azimio knew him pretty well.

Dave gave his friend a tired smile, trying not to wonder if he'd still be able to call Azimio a friend tomorrow. “I’m okay,” he said, reaching out and patting the other boy on the shoulder.

“C’mon, bro, my parents are here to see you, too.”

He let Azimio lead him over to the corner where the Adams were seated in the cheap folding chairs set up along the conference table, dressed up like they were going to church or something, with Mr. Adams in a expensively tailored suit and Ms. Adams in a pretty blouse and simple skirt. Of course, Azimio’s parents always dressed like that.

Dave took a deep breath as he sat down in the chair across from them, and Azimio sort of perched himself on the edge of the table. He really shouldn’t have come out here. Talk about his house of cards come tumbling down as all his carefully crafted stories were ripped apart, years of lies exposed because of one stupid mistake.

Hey, what was one more loss, right? But, dammit, he had worked so damn hard to make sure Az and his parents never realized the kind of street scum he really was. And it had been a hell of a lot harder than keeping it on the down low at school—trash like Puckerman might recognize trash like Dave, but the majority of the students at that school were oblivious, and the staff was worse than the students.

But he’d spent so much time at the Adams’ house after Azimio had transferred from his fancy private school in seventh grade. Dave had loved spending the night there, where it was warm and there were soft covers and pizza and Mario Brothers and even a chair in the guestroom that he could stick under the doorknob. Not that he didn’t trust Mr. Adams. He trusted the kind, gracious man more than any other man he’d ever met. But, you know, just in case. It never hurt to play it safe.

Hell, the bullshit Dave had fed the Adams’ over the years had gotten so complex that he’d had to start keeping a notebook so he could remember where he’d 'gone for the summer' and what his aunt’s name was and where his father worked and what kind of video games he had and where he liked to eat out and what he did with his dad on weekends.

Not to mention his ‘address,’ from the few times Mr. Adams had insisted on driving him ‘home.’ Home, which was a small house with peeling paint and dying grass on the poorest side of the district. Home, where he had a key to the backdoor, which is why he never went in through the front. Home, which looked poor enough to explain Dave’s Goodwill clothing but rich enough to keep the Adams from realizing the kind of trash he really was. The home he had never actually entered.

“Yo, Dave… Really, are you okay? You don’t look so great…”

Azimio really sounded worried and it kind of made Dave feel good. He really did get sick of being just what Puckerman called him—the token poor kid. Of course, Azimio was kind of the token black kid, or whatever the super rich and socialite version of that was, so Dave guessed he sort of understood. He was the best friend he'd ever had, anyway.

Sure, Azimio had spent plenty of time making fun of the way Dave always died in level three of Demon Robots Anonymous and liked to watch reruns of The Looney Tunes and sometimes sang Enrique Iglesias songs under his breath in the shower, but he’d never mentioned it when Dave had to duct tape his sneakers to keep them from falling apart. And he’d never said a word about the broken tooth that showed if Dave grinned really big. And he hadn’t even done anything more than shoot him a really weird look at after-game parties when Dave would stuff the other jocks’ leftover pizza crusts into the pockets of his hoodie.

“Yeah,” Dave said, staring down at the table as he drew nervous little circles on it with his fingertip, slumping down in his seat. “Yeah, I’m cool.”

Ms. Adams' voice sounded a little shocked. “Dave, my goodness! Your face looks horrible! Is your nose broken?”

Dave glanced up and gave a little shrug. “I don’t know. Yeah. Maybe.”

“Oh, Dave…” He gritted his teeth as she shook her head, holding a hand over her chest like she was about to burst a blood vessel.

God, he hated that look, the one that said, ‘oh, you’re so sad because your life is shit and I feel so bad because my life rocks, but not enough to do anything about it.’ He didn’t want her pity. And he didn’t deserve her pity, even if he *did* want it.

“Yeah, well, I pretty much deserved it, didn’t I?” Dave said harshly. “I did nearly put Hudson six feet under?” He gave a bitter laugh. “I think that warrants a few bruises, and maybe a lethal injection for good measure.” Dave shook his head. “You guys should just get back in your Beemer and go home. You didn’t have to come here. You don’t owe me anything.”

If anyone owed anything, it was him. Hell, he’d been syphoning off their generosity since he was thirteen. How much money had they spent, just feeding him? They went out to eat all the time and they never made him pay for his food. And he had practically devastated their pantry every time he visited. Not that he actually ate a lot. He ate as much as he could without tossing it up, but when you don’t eat regularly, your stomach gets small. And despite looking like a chubby Neanderthal, or whatever Fancy called him, he had a very small stomach. But that hadn’t stopped him from stealing everything from jars of peanut butter to bags of marshmallows to boxes of cereal—anything that would last, really—and stuffing them in his backpack for later.

No, he didn't deserve their pity. He just needed to get out of there.

Dave started to stand but Azimio reached out and grabbed his arm, making his lip curl up a little as his friend stared at him, looking confused. “Dude, what is with you, man? We came ‘cause we were worried about you, bro! I mean, damn! Jail, man? That’s pretty hardcore. This is just *crazy.*”

Dave yanked his arm from Azimio’s grip, scowling. “It’s just juvie, Az. I been here before and no doubt I’ll be here again---if they don’t keep me locked up forever over this stunt, anyway.”

Azimio’s brow furrowed a little. “What do you mean, you’ve been here before?”

Dave snorted. “Did you really think my old man took me to fucking Disneyworld last summer, man? I was in juvie for a month. And in seventh grade, when I went to visit my grandma on Albuquerque or New Orleans or where ever I said? Juvie, bro. And when I took a week off school and spent all spring break with my mom in LA? I ain’t seen my mom since I was five. Don’t even know if she’s alive or if the crack did her in or if she’s in the boob-tastic version of lockup. No reason to look for her—she didn’t want me. Used to call me ‘Mistake.’ Hey, Mistake, come clean this up. Mistake, shut your mouth!” Dave snorted, shaking his head in amusement. “A real sweetheart, my mom.”

“Dave,” Mr. Adams said, leaning forward, his voice soft. “Please sit down. We… we want to talk to you about some things.”

Dave clenched his jaw, staring at the man. He really did like Mr. Adams. Christopher. He always told Dave to call him Christopher. But that was just another step closer to caring about someone. And nobody could hurt you as much as the people you cared about.

Dave really didn’t know many men. He knew his Pops, obviously, and the line of foster dads he’d been stuck with. Most of them had quite the affinity for smacking him around or putting him in places where he couldn’t get out and at least two of them had expected him to get a lot closer than he was comfortable with. Maybe three. It all kind of ran together. And by 'close' he didn’t mean they wanted to cuddle on the couch. Then there were the men his old man had brought in to pay for his liquor stash, and the ones he met on the street.

But Mr. Adams was probably the only one he had ever really talked to. The only one who had actually sat down with Dave and explained things that everybody else seemed to just know, but no one had ever bothered to tell him. Like what it meant when he was sweating but felt so, so cold and his body ached for no reason. A fever. He had a fever.

Dave had thought a fever made you feel hot.

Or why his body had been doing weird stuff since fifth grade when his voice had started to drop and he’d started… changing down there. Seriously, he had learned more about his body in the thirty minute sex lecture he and Azimio had gotten after Az’s dad had caught his son making out with a topless girl than he had learned in fourteen years. Like the ‘real’ names for things he’d been doing for years and hadn’t even really known what they were.

“We tried to go see your father, Dave,” Mr. Adams said quietly as Dave sat back down, eyes on the table. “But it was funny. The house I’ve dropped you off at? Dave… your father doesn’t live there. And the couple that does? They’ve been there over ten years. And they’d heard of a Dave Karofsky.”

Azimio’s brow furrowed as he looked over at his dad. “Wait, what? You didn’t tell me that. I don’t get it.”

“Dave,” Ms. Adams said, “we’re really confused right now. First we find out that you attacked a boy at school, then that you have a social worker, and then that you don’t live where you told us you do. And now you’re telling us that you’ve been in juvenile detention before. Please, Dave, help us understand what’s going on.”

Dave sucked in a deep breath, letting out slowly. “What’s it really matter?” he asked tiredly. “It’s not your problem. I don’t even know why the hell you’re here.”

Dave licked his lips nervously, doing his best to keep his face wiped clean, to hide the pain that was cutting through him at the thought of losing the few people who had never hurt him, even when he’d kicked their coffee table, even when they’d caught him stealing cash out of the jar they kept for their pocket change in the kitchen, even when he’d thrown up all the liquid courage he’d downed to get through the night in their car, even when he’d knocked over their big, fluffy Christmas tree.

“I don’t know why you even came here.” Dave leaned back, gripping the edge of the table. “I don’t know what you want from me. An apology? I’m sorry that I’m a lying piece of shit. I’m sorry that I took everything I could from you and never gave you anything back. I’m sorry for whatever I’m supposed to be sorry for, okay?" His voice was growing louder, an edge of panic to it. "There, is that what you want from me?!” Dave swallowed hard, choking back the hurt. He didn’t care. It didn’t matter. These people weren’t anything to him, anyway. So fuck it all. “Now will you just leave me the fuck alone?!”

“Please, Dave," Mr. Adams said, voice serious. "We came because we care about you! You’ve been in our lives for years now! You’re in half our family videos and I can hardly remember a weekend that you and Azimio didn’t spend together.”

Dave shook his head, sneering. “Yeah, well, plenty of people have known me for a hell of a lot longer than you—like the homeless dude on 5th street—and you don’t see them here.”

“Dude, what happened to us being best friends?” Azimio said, looking a little lost. “Why have you been lying to me, man?”

Dave ducked his head at the hurt in the other boy’s voice, then gave a little huff of laughter. “I dunno. ‘Cause I wanted you to be my friend? ‘Cause I liked you. ‘Cause you were the only guy at school who wasn’t there in sixth grade when I wore the same two t-shirts all year long and would carry other kids’ books to class for a quarter?

“I mean, what was I supposed to say? ‘Oh, I don’t know where I’m living this week, it’s hard to keep the foster homes straight, I get kicked out of ‘em so fast’? ‘I gotta go, need to steal myself some new shoes before these fall apart’? ‘Sorry, you can’t come over, my Pops doesn’t like blacks much and since he’s always drunk he might hurt ya’?” Dave snorted. “Because, you know, everyone wants to be friends with someone like *that*.”

“Dave, man, we knew you weren’t exactly rich, bro,” Azimio said, sounding so confused. “Who the hell cares? It’s just money.”

Spoken like a true rich person. These people had no idea what kind of person Dave was. Even with all this, they just didn’t see. Because if they knew—really knew—they’d be running for the hills. If they knew the kind of sick things he’d done, if they knew how low he’d stooped just to survive, just to put food in his stomach and a roof over his head...

If they knew the things he’d done in all his pitiful, hopeless attempts to get his Pops to love him. A man who hated him. A man who hurt him.

The only man he really, really loved.

What was it about his father that made him love him just as much as he feared him?

“Dave, if you were in trouble, why didn’t you come to us? We’d have helped you,” Mr. Adams said in an almost pleading tone.

“Yeah,” Dave said, choking up a little, “for awhile. And then you’d start to see just how sick and fucked up I am. First it wouldn’t seem so bad. Then your food would start to disappear. Then there would be nightmares. Loud nightmares that woke you up. Then the smart ass remarks. Then the yelling and the kicking and the hitting. And nothing would stop it, ‘cept *making* me shut the fuck up. But even that wouldn't stop it for long. And then I’d be standing on the curb with next to the trash with my backpack and maybe twenty bucks in my pocket if I’m lucky." His voice broke slightly. "Been there, done that.” 

Dave shrugged. “So, yeah, I lied to you. And maybe it meant that I was standing outside in the snow, looking in the window at you guys sitting around the fireplace. But it was better than spending just long enough inside to get used to being warm and then getting shoved outside in the cold again.”

A small sniffling sound came from Ms. Adams and Dave dropped his eyes as he saw her wiping at tears. Why the fuck did he always make people cry? Why did he hurt everyone around him?

“Dave,” Mr. Adams said quietly, reaching out as if he was going to take Dave’s hand, then pausing when Dave flinched away, withdrawing his hands slowly. “Now that I look back… I think we ignored a lot, Dave. And that was very wrong of us. There were so many signs. So many things that weren’t really explained by the things you told us.” He gave a sigh and rubbed at his forehead. “I just… I feel like we really owe you an apology, Dave. You shouldn’t have felt like you were—” Mr. Adams cut off, swallowing deeply. “Like you were outside looking in. Dave, we love you—”

“Don’t say that,” Dave said sharply, clenching his fists. “You don’t know me. You don’t love me.” No one loved him. No one had ever loved him and to try and pretend he wasn't the reason for that was just a bunch of bullshit. People could whine and moan about how it wasn’t *him*, how it was everybody else, how someday someone would love him—but he knew the truth. Did they really expect him to believe that it was just coincidence that, in sixteen years, nobody had ever loved him? That it really wasn’t something wrong with *him* that turned people away?

Talk about bullshit.

“Dave, we—”

The slamming of a door cut off whatever Mr. Adams had been about to say, and Dave turned automatically, eyes widening at the large figure who had just entered the room, a sneer on his face as he looked around the room.

Dave’s breath caught. No, no, no. This was not good. Talk about the worst possible time for his Pops to show up. In a room full of his black friends and Glee clubber queers.

The big man’s eye caught Dave’s and he dropped his gaze, trying desperately to wish his old man away.

It had never worked before, but it was always worth another try.

“What the hell you been getting into now, boy?”

His Pops’ voice carried across the room and Dave stood abruptly, pushing Azimio aside as he made his way toward his father, cutting the man off before he could make it to the conference table.

“Pops,” Dave said, keeping his voice low. “You don’t need to be here. It won’t help nothin’. Why don’t you just go home, okay? I’ll be home soon and it will all be fine—”

“Fuck that,” the man interrupted, making a rude face. “I wanna know what the motherfucking hell you think you doing. You end up behind bars, I lose my goddamn check. And how am I supposed to pay the bills if you ain’t putting in your share?”

Dave’s face reddened slightly and he took a deep breath, doing his best to suppress his anger. Getting pissed at his Pops never helped anything. But talking about Dave putting in his ‘share’… Ha. His ‘share’ paid for *everything*.

“Pops,” he said quietly, swallowing down the anger. “I—” he grimaced slightly, “I’m sorry, okay? But it’ll be alright. It was Nothing. Just a stupid fight. They arrested all of us, but there’s nothing to hold any of us for.”

Except the whole bit where he put Hudson in the hospital. But that was need to know information. And his old man did *not* need to know. “So just go home, okay?”

Dave winced as the Smile of Pain crossed his Pops’ face. God he hated that look.

Really, looking at his Pops when he was pissed was like looking into a mirror. A big, terrifying mirror. The kind of mirror that made Dave want to claw his own face off if it would just make it go away.

“Like hell, I’ll go home,” his Pops said, grabbing suddenly for Dave’s collar, dragging the boy toward him. “Seriously, boy, who the fuck do you think you are to order me around?”

Dave winced as a sweetly sour smell filled his senses. Whiskey and sweat. The smell of father. “Please… I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t mean it like that…” He turned his eyes to the side as much as he could. He didn’t want to see that dangerous smile. But, even more than that, he didn’t want to see the poorly disguised hate in those eyes.

“Listen here, boy—”

“Hey, what do you think you’re doing? Let him go!”

Dave winced at the sound of Mr. Adams’ voice. Things just kept getting better and better.

“I’m fine, Mr. Adams,” Dave said through gritted teeth, stumbling a little as his Pops shoved him away, turning an angry stare on the other man.

“Who the fuck is this?” his Pops asked, raising an eyebrow in disbelief. “You hangin’ out with niggers now, boy?”

“Excuse me,” a voice came from behind Dave, making him jump a little. He hadn’t realized anyone was behind him. What the hell was wrong with him? Damn, damn, damn.

Mr. Hummel stepped around Dave, moving to stand face to face with Dave’s Pops, a furious look on his face.

“Are you Dave Karofsky’s father?”

Dave’s Pops looked down at the man, looking mildly amused. “Yeah. Unfortunately. What the fuck you want?”

“I’m Burt Hummel. Kurt Hummel’s father. The boy your son has been bullying?”

Oh, dear God. Did this man really think his old man gave a damn if Dave was a bully? Talk about naive. It must run in the Hummel family or something. The innocence gene.

Dave’s Pops raised a thick eyebrow. “Uh, okay. And I give a rip because…?”

Mr. Hummel’s brow furrowed. “I just want to make sure you realize that, despite how it might look,” he gestured vaguely toward Dave’s face, “your son is not the victim here.”

A loud snort came from Dave’s old man. “No shit? The victim. Ha. That little cocksucker ain’t no victim. Irritating bastard, yeah. Whatever the fuck he did for you to sock the shit outta him, I’m sure he damn well deserved it.”

“What? I didn’t hit your son.”

His Pops waved away the words. “Yeah, whatever. Now get lost. I got things to chat about with my kid here.”

Dave flinched as his father’s big hand came down on his shoulder, an overly sweet parody of a smile on his face.

“Your son has been targeting my son all year!” Mr. Hummel said, his face a quickly deepening shade of red. “Don’t you even care?”

No. Obviously.

“Dad, stop it!”

Dave winced as Fancy appeared suddenly, prancing his pretty little ass out of the midst of the Sing Along Club. Wonderful. First blacks, now homos. His old man was gonna have a ball with this.

Dave’s Pops stared down at Kurt for a moment, then turned a cruel grin on Dave. “This his kid? The one you been picking on?” He laughed. “Looks like a faggot to me. That why you like to play with him? You fucking queer.” He shoved Dave almost playfully, shaking his head derisively. “Sick bitch.”

“Pops,” Dave said, voice a little desperate. “Why don’t you go home now?” Look, I got some money in my locker at school. In my Algebra book. That’s the math one. Almost a hundred bucks. That’ll be enough ‘til I get out Monday. Then I’ll be home and I’ll get you some money, okay?”

Even if just thinking about it made him want to vomit.

His Pops’ eyes narrowed and Dave’s stomach twisted in knots. What had he said…?

“You been keeping money from me, Davey?”

Oh, shit. Shit, shit, shit. Adrenaline spiked in Dave’s veins as his mind began to scream at him to run, to talk, to get on his fucking knees and beg forgiveness—anything to wipe that look off his Pops’ face.

“No! No, sir, I promise. I mean, I just put it there ‘cause it was in my pocket. I forgot to give it to you. Then I forgot to take it home. I swear, Pops. I swear!” Scout’s honor. He hadn’t been saving it for three months to buy new cleats. No, not at all.

Anything to keep his old man from pounding his already busted face into little pieces.

“Don’t lie to me, you little cocksucker,” his Pops said, voice low and dangerous.

Dave swallowed hard. He was not anything short of a very big boy. So how was it that his Pops could make him feel so damn small?

“Pops, I ain’t lying! I swear it, sir.” And the lies continued.

“Bullshit. You think I can’t see right through you, boy? I’m your fucking father. Don’t you have any respect?”

Respect? Dave’s face reddened. Who was he to bitch about respect? It wasn’t like his Pops had ever respected *him*. God, Dave was *sick* of this shit. He was sick of spending all his time begging his old man, ‘no, no, no’. If he’d given his Pops the money, he’d have already drunk it away. So fuck his Pops. It would just be another black eye on an already broken face.

“You know what?” Dave spat, the rush of anger overpowering the fear. “Go to hell, Pops. I *was* hiding the money. And I’ve done it before! *I* was the one who worked for it! I never saw you put *your* ass out there to earn a few bucks!”

Wow. He had almost forgotten how big and hard the back of his old man’s hand was. Fighting with teenagers in locker rooms was really spoiling him.

Because there was really nothing quite like a father’s fist against your face to make you feel like that scared little boy again.

 

* * *

 

Kurt wrapped his arms around his father, choking back tears of happiness. There was really nothing quite like a father’s arms to make you feel safe.

Kurt pressed himself more firmly against his father’s broad chest, just basking in the feeling of his grip, tight and strong, the steady pounding of his heart. It was like being cacooned in love. Like nothing could hurt him as long as he had his dad there to protect him.

“Oh, God, Kurt,” his father murmured, voice hoarse as he held Kurt tightly against him. “I’ve been so worried about you. Are you okay? Has anyone hurt you?”

Kurt gave a little huff of laughter. How did you answer a question like that? *Was( he okay? No. Had anyone hurt him? Yes. But would he *be* okay? Maybe. Hopefully.

So many answers, so little meaning.

Kurt pulled away from his father, wiping at the tear that trickled down his cheek as smiled up at his father as bravely as he could manage.

“Kurt, I am so sorry this happened.” The voice was hoarse but steady and Kurt glanced over, a real smile blooming on his face as he saw Finn's dopey grin.

“Finn!” He moved around his father, reaching out to grasp the other boy’s hands. “Oh, your neck!” He winced at the many shades of purple decorating Finn’s throat.

Finn gave Kurt a friendly pat on the shoulder. “I’m fine, Kurt. Kind of hurts to swallow, but it should be as good as new in a couple weeks. Nothing permanent.”

“He can still sing!” Rachel put in, causing Kurt to roll his eyes. Yeah, because that was *totally* what he was worried about.

“Puck, Kurt, we’ve been talking to some lawyers,” Burt said, squeezing one of Kurt's hands reassuringly. “And we’re going to get you out of here.”

“And hopefully lock Karofsky away forever,” Mercedes added, shaking her head.

“Really, that boy ought to hang,” Burt said, voice unusually harsh.

Kurt looked up sharply. “Dad, don’t talk like that. Dave may be a bully, but you shouldn’t judge him.”

Finn raised an eyebrow. “Dave? Since when are we all buddy buddy with Karofsky? He hasn’t tried to hurt you, has he? His social worker said they’d put you in the same, like, cell neighborhood or whatever.”

“Actually, they put us in the same cell,” Kurt said, shaking his head.

His dad’s mouth dropped open. “They *what*? Are they *insane*? He hasn’t hurt you, has he Kurt? I swear to God, I am going to sue this place form here to hell—”

“Don’t worry, Mr. Hummel,” Puck said, flashing the ‘Mr. Bad Ass’ smile that he hadn’t dared to pull out since they’d been stuck in this hell hole. He tossed an arm over Kurt’s shoulder. “I’m watching out for him.”

Kurt rolled his eyes. Because no one made a better bodyguard than the guy with a dick shaved on his head.

“Actually, Dave has mostly been the one watching out for me. We came to a kind of… understanding.” He shrugged off Puck’s arm. “But Puck’s done a good job of running off to get Dave when something goes wrong.” He smirked slightly as Puck shot him a glare. Watch the bad boy reputation come a’tumbling down.

“We have been soooo worried,” Rachel said, unceremoniously shoving Finn aside as she made her way to the front of the group, flashing them an almost manic smile. “In fact, I was so worried that I prepared a musical number just for the occassion! I was going to bring Brad, but when I called about scheduling a time to use the piano, they told me they didn’t have one. Can you imagine? No music room? Really, how do they expect to rehabilitate boys with no music room? And they took my iPod at the door, so I guess I’ll just have to sing it acapella!” She cleared her throat and raised her arms, beginning to sway.

“Feel free to join in at any time! The warden threw a party in the county jail, the prison band was there and they began to wail!”

“Oh my God,” Mercedes said, eyes wide. “Is she insane?”

“The band was jumpin’ and the joint began to swing—you should have heard those knocked out jailbirds sing!”

“Rachel! What’s *wrong* with you?” Finn gave her a little push. “Don’t sing that here!”

“Let’s rock, everybody, let’s rock, everybody in the whole cell block was dancin’ to the jailhouse rock—”

“Rachel, I *really* don’t think this is appropriate,” Mr. Schue cut, in looking embarrassed. “In fact, I think it’s really, *really* inappropriate.”

"Rachel, seriously, just shut up!" Finn said, shaking his head in disbelief.

Rachel cut off, frowning deeply. "I was just trying to be supportive!"

"Oh for goodness sake," Mercedes muttered, shoving Rachel out of the way as she moved toward Kurt, an somewhat forced looking smile on her face as she reached out, grabbing his hand and squeezing. “We tried to bring you some moisturizer, Kurt, but they wouldn’t let us bring it in. Apparently you can, like, smuggle drugs in that way or something.”

Mercedes stared at Kurt for a long moment, then suddenly flung her arms around him, wrapping him in a tight hug. “Oh, Kurt, we’ve been terrified! And you’re in a *cell* with Karofsky? He should be locked up for life—but not with you!”

Kurt patted her back a little awkwardly. “Hey, it’s okay, Mercedes. We’re okay. I mean, maybe we shouldn’t judge Karofsky too quick. I really don’t think he meant to do what he did—”

“Are you really defending him Kurt?” Burt said in disbelief as Mercedes pulled away, staring at him strangely. “After the way he’s bullied you? And what he did to Finn?”

Kurt winced. What was he supposed to say? ‘Oh, well, you should really cut him a break ‘cause he’s gay and doesn’t want to accept it and, oh yeah, his entire life sounds like a bad mix of a Law and Order: Special Victims Unit episode and an illegal porno’? Somehow he didn’t think that Dave would appreciate the sentiment, even if it might win a few more supporters to his side. Or maybe not. His dad looked *pretty* pissed.

“I just think that maybe we need to get his side of the story, you know?” Oh, that was brilliant.

“You mean the side where he hates you for being gay and throws you against lockers every day?” Mercedes said, sounding annoyed. “Kurt, I love you, baby, but are you, like, defending that asshole? I know you feel guilty for hurting him but, damn, boy, he really deserved a good smack to the face.”

Kurt threw up his hands, suddenly annoyed. “Why does everyone keep *saying* that? Nobody deserves to have someone beat their face in! Nobody! I don’t *care* what they did or didn’t do. Violence does not help *anything*! You guys, his social worker, Dave himself—is there anybody in this world that *doesn’t* think the sixteen year old boy deserves to be beaten black and blue, no matter *what* he’s done?”

He turned toward his father. “What about me, Dad? You know what I did last week? I told Rachel that she couldn’t sit with Mercedes and me and lunch because we were afraid that her toddler’s clothes would attract pedophiles and that if she planned to hang out with us she had better stop shopping at Babies R Us and get some grownup clothes, ‘cause the panda print on her sweater made me want to put her on a plane back to where it was made in China.” He laughed shortly at the look on his father’s face. “Not real nice of me, was it? What do I deserve, huh, Dad? A punch in the face? A kick in the ass?”

Burt took a deep breath, crossing his arms over is chest as he looked seriously at Kurt. “Kurt, that’s not the same. It makes me disappointed in you, but it’s not the same as physically attacking someone for no reason—”

“He had a reason. I was gay. He didn’t like it. In his mind, that was a valid reason to try and hurt me. And he *really* believed that. How do you know that *your* reasoning as to why it’s okay to hurt somebody isn’t just as screwed up as Karofsky’s. Fifty years ago 99% of the country would have *agreed* with him. But that doesn’t make it right, now or then.”

“Seriously, Kurt,” Finn said, sounding exasperated, “why are you defending Karofsky?”

Kurt let out a long sigh. Why *was* he defending Dave? He was sure that Dave wouldn’t want him to defend his honor, not that he had a lot of honor. But maybe that was just it. He wouldn’t want him to, but maybe he *needed* him to. Nobody else was going to do it, not even Dave himself, as messed up as that was.

Kurt glanced over to the other side of the room where Dave was sitting, looking uncomfortable, across from Azimio and what he assumed were his parents. The boy ducked his head as one the neatly dressed woman leaned forward, saying something softly. Dave had been so shocked when he’d heard that they’d come to see him. Puck and Kurt had a room full of visitors. Who had visited Dave when he’d been here before? That sick bastard of a father?

“You know what, let’s not talk about it right now, okay?” He moved back into his father's arms. God, he was so tired. Too tired to argue, to tired to do anything but stand in the safe arms of the man he loved more than anything in the world. Why had this happened? Why couldn’t he just go home? He was so, so tired, but it was like he had the weight of the world balanced on his shoulders.

He nuzzled his father’s shoulder. “I love you, Dad.”

Burt’s arms tightened around him. “I love you, too, Kurt. And don’t you worry. We’ll get you out of here soon.”

Kurt jumped as a loud bang came from across the room and a man half strutted, half stumbled, if that was even possible, through the door, a sneer on his face.

First thought: he was enormous. Second thought: he was Dave.

The man was big enough that his shoulders were almost as wide as the doorframe, and he had to be six foot four or five, at least. His head was shaved, but he had the same sort of round face as Dave did, though he was bigger below, with tree trunks for arms and a beer belly hanging over his belt.

The man threw up his arms as he moved toward Dave, cocking his head dangerously. “What the motherfuckin’ HELL did you think you be doin’, boy?”

Dave practically leaped up from the chair he was sitting in, moving to cut off the bigger man before he reached where Azimio and his family were sitting, saying something that Kurt couldn’t hear, a desperate look on his face.

“Damn, is that Karofsky’s dad? He’s huge, man,” Finn said, his eyes wide.

“Is he *drunk*?” Rachel asked, sounding a little disgusted. “It’s not even noon yet.”

Burt clenched he jaw and started to move away, pausing when Kurt caught his arm.

“Dad, what are you doing?”

Burt tugged his arm away, frowning. “I want to talk to that boy’s father! He should know what his son’s been doing!”

Uh-oh. This was not good.

“No, Dad,” Kurt said, dancing in front of his father. “Look, it won’t help anything, okay? I don’t think Dave has a very good relationship with his dad. Please, just leave them alone—”

“Kurt,” Burt said, sounding annoyed. “Karofsky’s father should know what his son’s been doing! I do not want him thinking that his son is the innocent one here!” He pushed Kurt to the side and moved toward the man, a furious look on his face. Kurt grimaced. So *very* not good.

“Are you Dave Karofsky’s father?”

The twisted sort of look on the other man’s face kind of made Kurt want to run and hide. “Yeah. Unfortunately. What the fuck you want?”

Kurt’s dad crossed his arms over his chest, narrowing his eyes. “I’m Burt Hummel. Kurt Hummel’s father. The boy your son has been bullying?”

Kurt glanced over at Dave, who was staring hard at the floor like maybe if he didn’t look then it would all just go away.

“Uh, okay. And I give a rip because…?” The man moved a few steps closer and Kurt’s lip turned up slightly at the smell of alcohol that reeked from, well, pretty much everywhere.

Burt shook his head. “I just want to make sure you realize that, despite how it might look, your son is not the victim here.”

Kurt took a deep breath, feeling a little ill, as he watched Dave continue to stare at nothing, face expressionless beneath the bruises. Really, who was more a victim than the victim who didn’t even know they were the victim?

Dave’s father snorted. “No shit? The victim. Ha. That little cocksucker ain’t no victim. Irritating bastard, yeah. Whatever the fuck he did for you to sock the shit outta him, I’m sure he damn well deserved it.”

Burt’s mouth dropped open. “What? I didn’t hit your son.”

The man waved the words away. “Yeah, whatever. Now get lost. I got things to chat about with my kid here.” He laughed loudly as he reached out and smacked a hand down on Dave’s shoulder, making the boy flinch, panic flashing across his face for an instant before it was wrestled back into expressionless submission.

“Your son has been targeting my son all year!” Burt's voice was furious. “Don’t you even care?”

Dave’s big shoulders slumped, his head hanging down, as his father flashed Burt an obviously fake smile and gave Dave's shoulder a little shake.

Kurt had to end this. This would not make things better. This would only make it all worse. “Dad, stop it!”

“This his kid?” the man asked Dave with a cruel laugh. “The one you been picking on? Looks like a faggot to me. That why you like to play with him? You fucking queer.” He shoved Dave and made a rude gesture with his tongue against his cheek. “Sick bitch.”

“Pops,” Dave said suddenly, raising his face to meet his father’s eyes, voice a little hoarse. “Why don’t you go home now?” He wrapped his arms around himself as if he was cold, hunching down a little. “Look, I got some money in my locker at school. In my Algebra book. That’s the math one. Almost a hundred bucks. That’ll be enough ‘til I get out Monday. Then I’ll be home and I’ll get you some money, okay?”

There was a deafening silence as a furious look took over the man’s face, his voice lowering dangerously when he spoke, words slow and angry. “You been keeping money from me, Davey?”

Kurt literally shivered. Fathers should not look at their sons like they were going to rip them into pieces.

“No!” There was a terrified edge to Dave’s voice as he took a step toward his father, a pleading look on his face. “No, sir, I promise. I mean, I just put it there ‘cause it was in my pocket.” His voice grew higher with every word. “I forgot to give it to you. Then I forgot to take it home. I swear, Pops. I swear!”

The elder Karofsky’s fists clenched at his side as he bent slightly so that his face was right in Dave’s. “Don’t lie to me, you little cocksucker.”

Dave began to shake his head, over and over again. “Pops, I ain’t lying! I swear it, sir.”

“Bullshit. You think I can’t see right through you, boy? I’m your fucking father. Don’t you have any respect?”

Dave’s face tightened suddenly as he pulled back, clenching his jaw, fury flashing across his face. “You know what? Go to hell, Pops. I *was* hiding the money.”

Oh, God.

“And I’ve done it before! *I* was the one who worked for it! I never saw you put *your* ass out there to earn a few bucks!”

The man’s whole body moved as he slung his fist across Dave’s face like he was swinging a bat, sending the boy toppling.

“Hey!” Burt said sharply, stepping forward. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” He moved toward the bigger man. "You can't just hit a kid like that!"

"Who the hell do you think you are, tellin' me what to do with *my* son?"

“For fuck’s sake!” Dave said as he climbed to his feet, blood running from his nose. “Will everybody calm the hell down? I’m fine, dammit!”

He wiped at his face, just succeeding in smearing the blood across his entire face, blood continuing to flow. He raised up his shirt and ripped a piece off, stuffing it up his nose as he moved between Burt and his dad, looking up at his father.

“Pops, please,” he said, voice very quiet. “This… is not the time, okay?” His eyes flickered over toward Burt. “I… I’ll be home on Monday. We’ll… talk about it then, okay?” His voice was steady but Kurt could still see the pain on his face, even through the blood and bruises.

The man took a deep breath, glaring at Burt then glancing over to the guard who was standing at the other end of the room, not looking like he gave a shit.

“Fine,” he said finally, his voice practically a growl. He shoved a finger in Dave’s face. “But we will be… talkin’ ‘bout this, boy. You hear me?”

“Yes, sir,” Dave said, dropping his eyes.

His father sneered at them, then turned to where Mr. Adams was standing, looking shocked.

“Fucking nigger,” Dave’s dad said with a shake of his head. “You stay the fuck away from my boy. Go find you a piece of ass in Africa. He’s mine.” He shoved Dave slightly as he turned and headed toward the door.

The door slammed behind the man and everyone just kind of stared after him for a long, very uncomfortable moment.  
Finally Dave broke the silence, letting out a nervous little laugh. “Sorry ‘bout that. He ain’t a morning person." More silence. "You know what? I think I’ll go, uh, wash this off. Now. Yeah.”  
“Dave, wait,” Mr Azimio called out as the boy fled toward the door back to the cell block. “Dave!” The door slammed shut behind him.

“Wow,” Finn said after a moment, staring down at the bloody cloth on the floor with wide eyes. “Karofsky’s dad is a real jackass.”

Talk about the understatement of the century. Kurt swallowed down the sick feeling in his gut and moved back toward his father, hugging him again.

Really, he had never felt so grateful for the safety of his father’s arms.


	10. Another Boy's Tears

“Um, Dave?”

‘Um, go the fuck away,’ would have been Dave’s first response, but that seemed a little defensive, so he just kept his big mouth shut, shuffling the deck of cards in his hands.

“Dave?”

Dave glanced up, glaring at Kurt, who was standing like a faggot freak beside him, hands on his waist, hip cocked to the side. Dear God. How difficult was it for Hummel to comprehend that he needed to leave Sassy the Bitch at home and act like a good boy?

“Get on the floor.”

Fancy Pants blinked, looking confused. “Wha?”

“We’re in a rec room full of fucking inmates. You wanna chat? Get on your knees. You’re my girl, remember? Or has our excessive drama over the last few hours given you Alzheimer's? You having flash backs that we in the school hallway? Someone hit your ‘delete’ button?” He nodded in the general direction of the G Kings, who were having quite the time passing some bitch around like ass candy.

“I just want to talk to you about—”

Dave reached out and grabbed the princess by the shirt, yanking him hard enough that he toppled to the ground with a small cry, landing hard on his knees in front of Dave’s chair. “Wanna talk? Fine. I’ll talk—just about as much as dudes talk, which really ain’t much. Not that I expect you to know anything about real men, but I’d think you’d have picked that up from your girly friends.” He shoved lightly at the boy’s shoulders. “But when I tell you to get on the fucking floor, just get on the fucking floor!”

Before his little attitude flagged some bastard’s attention and Dave had to fight for his rights to the whiny bitch.

Kurt glared up at him, looking at him like Dave had just said that Disney was locking ‘The Sound of Music’ in the movie vault for five thousand years. “I’m not your—”

“My bitch? My girl? My whore? Yeah, actually you are.” They’d been over this, hadn’t they? “At least for another couple of days. So I suggest that you get used to it. ‘Cause if you’re not my piece of ass, you’ll just be somebody else’s. And I don’t think you want that.” Dave shuffled his cards again, watching Fancy out of the corner of his eye. Aw, poor little miss queen bitch, down on her knees like a commoner.

Let’s see how he liked it at *Dave’s* level.

Kurtsy thought he had it so tough, having to live his life all out and proud--waah waah waah, cryin’ like a baby. Ha. His life was a fucking cruise ship. A big, gay cruise ship. The Rainbow Cruise.

“Dave,” Kurt said as he leaned forward toward Dave’s chair, obviously uncomfortable sitting on his knees. His voice was irritatingly calm, despite the annoyed look on his face “I think we should talk about what happened—”

Talk? About what *happened*? Was he out of his mind? Guys like Dave didn’t talk. Not ever. Snitches were bitches. “Nothing happened. And nothing *ever* happens, princess. Get used to it.” He sneered. “There. We’ve talked. So shut your mouth and look pretty. I know you’re good at doing that.” Unfortunately.

Kurt scowled and began to push himself up, looking at Dave with that superior little glimmer in his eyes. That look that screamed ‘you’re a loser, but I’m gonna fix you, because I’m good and noble like that.’ Screw that shit.

Dave stuffed his cards into a pocket as he stood sbruptly, then grabbed the pretty boy by the shoulders, shoving him back to his knees. “I said.” He stuck a finger in the boy’s face, looming over him threateningly. “Stay on the fucking floor. Is this too complex for you, baby? You don’t understand a word a man says unless it’s the name of a designer shoe?” He glared at the smaller boy as he stared up at him, those brows coming together in confusion, that pretty mouth forming a little ‘o.’

There was a catcall from across the room and Dave jerked, turning just enough to glare in the general direction of the Gangsta Kings, flexing his arms dangerously. “Shut the fuck up, you nigger bastards!”

“Aw, c’mon!” Tiny Tom called out, his big weight rocking back and forth as he laughed. The table he was sitting on looked like it was about to crack. “We just watchin’ da show, man! Gonna have your way with Cinderella there?”

Dave flashed his teeth at the other, his blood pounding so hard it felt like he’d just shot up. On the *anger* drug. “No, but my fist might just decide to have its way with your face if you don’t shut your fat hole!”

“Dave?” Kurt said, sounding a little scared. Dave turned back, ready to spit another few choice phrases into the bitch’s face, then gritted his teeth as he saw those pretty eyes staring up at him, all wide and panicked.

Fuck.

He took a deep breath. What was he doing? Wasn’t he supposed to be protecting the princess? Of course, how the hell would even know what it *meant* to protect someone? What *was* protecting someone? Fuck if he knew. His life was a prime example for just how much he’d failed at protecting *anybody.* He hadn’t even been able to keep his *own* ass safe, now he was supposed to cover his *and* Fancy’s?

Dave let out a loud sigh then reached down, grabbing Kurt by the arm and hauling him to his feet, wrapping a big arm around that slender waist as he pressed the boy against him.

“Sorry,” he muttered, ducking his head so he could talk directly into the boys ear, voice quiet. “Just… here.” He sat back down, pulling Pretty Pants with him, sending Kurt toppling rather unceremoniously into his lap. “Okay, *fine.* You wanna blab a bunch of therapeutic bullshit at me, then blab,” he said, his face nuzzling against the boy’s neck. “But play the good boy or I’ll have to beat you.” He shot a glance over at the still leering Gangsta Kings. “And I *really* don’t want to have to beat you.”

Kurt jerked slightly, as if trying to escape, but Dave tightened his grip, wrapping another arm around the boy as he pulled him farther back onto his lap.

God, he probably looked like a color blind Biker Santa Claus, in his big, orange suit. All he needed was a beard.

“*Beat* me?! Excuse me?!”

Seriously, the things that panicked the princess made Dave wanna roll his eyes. “You’re being a *bitch.* Act like a bitch, get beaten like a bitch. You wanted to know about *my* mamma--didn’t *your* mamma teach you nothing?”

Kurt wiggled a little in his arms, managing to turn his upper body just enough to glare at Dave. “No, actually, my mother never encouraged the *beating* of the *child* of her *womb.* Now will you let me go, you big oaf?”

“No,” Dave said flatly, pulling him tighter against his chest. “Now quit fighting it before Tiny Tom gets any ideas, okay?”

“Just so you know, I am very, *very* uncomfortable with this," Fancy responded, looking put out.

“Sit in my lap or kneel on the fucking floor. Just make up your damn mind already.”

“How about I sit in a chair?” Kurt shot back, sounding irritated. “You know, like a human being?”

Irritating *bitch.* “Who said you were a human being?” Dave reached around the boy, slipping a hand roughly between those thin thighs, laughing harshly when the homo squealed and batted at his hand. “This is lockup, princess. Just cause it’s kiddie prison doesn’t make it nice. You’re small, you can’t fight, you got skin the color of Casper, and you’re obviously a fag. None of those things makes you a human being. They just make you easy meat.”

“Are you pissed at me?” Kurt questioned suddenly, looking confused.

“Nope.”

“Then why are you holding me captive?!” He smacked a hand down on Dave’s arm in an attempt to emphasize his point. It really just succeeded in annoying Dave.

“Why not?”

Fancy shook his head, a look of disbelief on his face. “What kind of answer is that?”

Dave shrugged. “Sorry, sweetheart, but I don’t even try and answer ‘why’ questions anymore. It just makes my head hurt. The only ‘why’ question I understand is ‘why the hell do people expect that somebody must have a reason for doing the shit that they do?’” He snorted. “‘It was the drink.’ ‘It was the drugs.’ ‘It was the way they were raised.’ ‘It was the hood they grew up in.’ Maybe there *ain’t* a reason. Maybe people just do bad stuff because they can and they don’t have any reason not to.”

“That is a very depressing philosophy,” Kurt retorted, still wiggling in his arms a little. The fag needed to stop doing that or he was going to be wondering if Dave had a shank in his pocket or was just happy to see him.

Damn body. Always betraying him!

Dave released the boy, giving him a little shove that sent the kid toppling off his lap again. Fancy needed to stay *off* his lap. Because that was not a fucking shank in that pocket.

“Dammit!” Kurt snapped in annoyance.

Dave caught one of Pretty’s arms and he yanked him forward, grabbing the back of the boy’s neck and tugging his face forward until he was staring up at Dave. “Just be a good girl, would you? My head hurts like hell, my vision is still kind of tipsy, and I do *not* wanna have to fight.”

Kurt glared up at him. “You know, Azimio and his parents were pretty upset when you just ran off like that, Dave!”

Dave gritted his teeth, releasing the boy’s head. “What part of ‘dudes don’t talk about it’ did you miss, princess?”

Kurt just ignored him, set on making whatever point the little bitch wanted to make. “Your dad. He’s kind of scary.”

Dave smirked. “I’d never noticed.”

“Why do you stay with him, Dave?” Kurt seemed sincere. Probably didn’t even realize he was asking the one question Dave asked himself every night and still had never been able to figure out. Harder than two plus two equals who the fuck knew.

Why did he stay with his dad? Because he was a freak? Because he was pitiful? Because he was lonely? Loaded question much?

“Why do you stay with *your* dad?” Dave finally said, shrugging a little.

Kurt blinked, brow furrowing. “Because I love him.”

“Well, there you go.” Dave shrugged again.

“Wait, what?” Kurt looked cute when he was confused. His nose kind of wrinkled up.

Shit, Dave should *not* be thinking this shit.

“Because I love him. He’s my Pops. He’s a motherfucking son of a bitch, but he’s still my old man. He’s all I got. If I didn’t have him, where would I be? A foster home? The streets? A cemetery? Not that we could afford a fucking plot.”

Kurt shook his head. “But he *hurts* you.”

Dave chuckled darkly. When would Fancy realize that ‘beggars couldn’t be choosers’ actually meant something? “Look, I know you don’t understand. I mean, people *want* you around. Me? Ha.” There was a pain in his chest that made Dave want to grimace. Just push it away. Pain was worthless. “My mom didn’t want me. My foster parents didn't want me. I don’t got any real friends. Except maybe Azimio, but that’s only because I lied my ass off to turn myself into someone remotely tolerable. It’s not like I got a list of people begging to be my bro. My Pops… he’s the only person who’s ever wanted me around.” 

Even if it was just because Dave brought home the bacon. Or, in this case, the booze.

“But he *hurts* you.”

The bitch was like a broken record. Whatever that meant. Dave had never actually seen a record player. But Kurt definitely played the same crap shit over and over and over.

“I’m used to it.” You got used to the pain or you died. Dave was too tough to die. Right?

“That’s not healthy, Dave.”

“Neither is chocolate cake, but I like it.”

Kurt looked irritated. “That’s not what I meant. It’s not *mentally* healthy.”

For God’s sake, didn’t he ever let shit go? Dave sighed. “Weren’t you the one who was saying I was crazy as Lindsay Lohan just a couple days ago? Where the hell did you get the idea that I was mentally healthy?”

“I just think you need to recognize the fact that—”

Dave slammed a hand down on his thigh in annoyance, bending forward to stare Fancy in the face. “Look, Hummel. I know that you think I’m a big, stupid, redneck bully.”

Kurt sniffed. “You smell like one.”

Bitch. “Let’s not forget, though, that I may have bern born in the ghetto, but I grew up at the same suburb schools you did. I may act like a moron to seem tough, but I am not stupid. I know that ‘ain’t’ isn’t a word. I know that when you ‘don’t have nothing,’ it means that you have something. I know that a hundred dollars bill is called a ‘benjamin’ because it is stamped with an image of Benjamin Franklin, a major contributor to the New World Enlightenment and a Founding Father of our nation, not because that’s what Dr. Dre and Jay-Z call it. And I know that it is not healthy to believe that people have a right to hurt you, to want to be with people who hurt you, or to encourage abuse by accepting it. But there is a *big* difference between knowing things and believing them. Okay?” Sounding a little defensive there, Karofsky. Might be time to back of...

Kurt’s eyes went wide. “Dave, I—”

“Do you know what it’s *like* to have no one want you?" 

Oh, good job there, backing off the tough subjects. 

"How it feels when everyone in the world leaves you? It feels like *shit*, Hummel. So tell me things aren’t my fault. Tell me it’s my family and friends--and every other fucking person who was supposed to give a rip--who was wrong. Tell me a thousand times. Because I know you’re right. But I don’t *believe* you. And when it comes to a brain thing versus a heart thing? The heart will win every time.”

Dave sat back with a sigh, shaking his head as Kurt stared up at him with an indescribable look on his face. Shocked? Disturbed? Supercalifragilisticexpalidocious? Who the fuck knew? The bitch had emotions like a freaking chick. Need a palm reader just to figure him out. Not that those over-moisturized palms would have any lines to read.

“Dave, I just think maybe you should consider leaving that man. Maybe you could stay with the Adams—”

Stay with the Adams?! In their million dollars house with their fancy cars and fancy clothes and fancy life? Was Pretty Pants out of his mind? “This is you assuming that the Adams would want my cheap ass in their spiffy house. And even if they thought they did? I promise you, it wouldn’t last long. It never does.”

“I just—”

“Hey, Big D.”

Dave jumped a little as a hand came down on his shoulder, already raising his fist as he turned to glare at JJ Graham standing behind him, a skinhead lug on either side of him. One of the Nazi assholes flexed his muscles and Dave lowered his fist slowly, glaring.

This was not good. The Double AM and the Run Boys just avoided each other. Getting up in Dave’s personal space was kind of like spitting in his face. First the G Kings, now the Double AM. He hadn’t had this much trouble when it came to his standing in the slam since his first time in.

“Graham. What the fuck do you want?”

The boy just smiled slowly, rolling his shoulders in a relaxed way. “Oh, nothin’ much,” he drawled, smirking cruelly as he eyed Kurt. “I just didn’t realize you kept girls, D. So I find this situation very interestin’.”

Dave winced at the cold amusement in the Nazi bastard’s voice. He did not like JJ. It was the suburb in Dave. It kind of made him want to kick the racist mofo’s face in. Who the hell did he think he was, judging people because of the color of their skin? Dave really wanted to take that Aryan BS and shove it back down the prick’s throat.

But that was *not* the kind of attitude that kept you safe behind bars. The niggas didn’t need his defending. They sure as hell wouldn’t ever bother to defend a white boy.

“What the fuck do you *want*, JJ?” Dave snapped again. Kurt moved restlessly at his feet and Dave gritted his teeth, willing Kurt to just sit there quietly for once in his bitchy life. Please, please, please, just let the brat keep his hole closed—

“Are you the one who killed all those black people?”

Dear God. Dave resisted the urge to beat the boy’s head in with a chair. Was he out of his mind? How many times did Dave have to *explain* shit to him?

“Shut the fuck up, bitch,” Dave said roughly, shoving at Kurt’s shoulder. “It ain’t none of your business. I told ya to keep it closed.” He turned back toward JJ, shaking his head, a smirk pasted on his face. Roll with it. He just had to roll with the punches. “He’s a mouthy one. From the high side of town. Thinks he can do whatever he wants.”

JJ raised an eyebrow. “I wouldn’t think you’d be wasting your time with mouthy bitches.” His eyes narrowed, a cruel look coming over those sharp features. “You two seem kinda close. I heard that you seem pretty… into… this girl of yours.”

Dave’s shoulders tensed. Close? What the fuck was that supposed to mean? What was JJ getting at? If Puckerman had been running his mouth, spouting off their life stories, Dave was going to break his neck. The *last* thing they needed was for JJ to think Dave gave a shit about Kurt. Because the asshole would use anything he could to stab Dave without actually sticking a blade in his flesh.

JJ had been less than happy when Dave had refused his offer to join the All American Made and took up with the Run Boys instead. Apparently it was some sort of personal affront that Dave wasn’t into torturing Jews to death. Of course, he was pretty sure JJ felt it was a personal affront that *everybody* didn’t want to torture Jews to death.

“I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about, Graham.” He reached out and grabbed Kurt’s jaw with one hand, yanking the boy forward as he stared hard into those pretty eyes, trying his best to psychically convey the importance of shutting the fuck up to Kurt.

Kurt just tugged his face away, eyes flashing. “I can’t believe you killed all those black people. They were human beings!”

Dave knew his karma was shit. But did it all have to come back at him right that fucking second?

JJ let out a loud laugh. “You really are a mouthy little bitch.” He rolled his jaw, smirking down at Kurt, then spit out a wad of dip with a slurping sound, laughing as the boy shrieked, the dip smattering across his face.

JJ guy’s burst into laughter and Dave gritted his teeth. He had to get this shit under control.

“Yeah, well, what do you expect from a high browed little faggot?” Dave said, shooting a lewd look at Kurt. “Aw, baby, don’t wipe it off,” he said mockingly as Kurt rubbed frantically at his face, looking positively horrified. “Makes you look pretty.”

Kurt glared up, a furious look passing over his face, and Dave’s stomach clenched. Why, why, why couldn’t this brat keep his mouth shut? Didn’t he get it? Why did he have to be such a prissy fool?!

“Ha, ha. Really funny, asshole.”

JJ shook his head, eyebrows raised. “Shit, Big D. You let your boy talk to you like that? Gettin’ pretty lax, aren’t ya, boy?” He let out a harsh laugh. “You got yourself a boyfriend, D? That it? You turned into a faggot? Gonna start wearin’ rainbows and beggin’ to suck my dick like a bitch? Cause he sure acts like maybe you suck *his* dick, homo.”

A rush of anger flooded Dave and he opened his mouth to put that mofo back in his place--unfortunately, he didn’t open his mouth quite fast enough.

“What the hell is your problem?” Kurt was suddenly on his feet, fists clenching at his sides as he glared at JJ. “Why don’t you get the hell away from us, you white supremacist weirdo.”

JJ began to laugh, a look of disbelief on his face. “Are you *his* bitch, D? Is that it? Big D is some scrawny bitch’s girl?” The guys around him burst into laughter, cracking their knuckles as they glared darkly at Dave.

“I. Am. Nobody’s. Bitch.” Dave said through clenched teeth, his heart pounding so fast that it was probably bruising his fucking chest. Why the hell couldn’t the homo queen keep his trap shut? What would it take for him to understand that, in this house, he was *not* Dave’s *friend*?! Dave could protect his property. He had *claim.* But friends? Friends had to watch their own asses.

Dammit!

This had to stop. He had to make Fancy *get* it. The little suburb princess didn’t understand. He didn’t get that he was *nothing* to these bastards. That his dignity, his sanity, his *life* meant nothing to them. That he was absolutely *nothing* in their eyes and that if he tried to act like more, he’d better have the fist power to back it up.

Dave reached out suddenly, grabbing Kurt by the shirt and yanking him hard, flinging the smaller boy to the ground. Kurt let out a cry as his head slammed into the floor, looking up at Dave with a dazed, shocked expression. 

It sort of made Dave feel sick, but he quickly shoved it away. He had to make him understand.

“I told you to shut your mouth, bitch! I am fucking sick of your shit! You belong to *me*, and if you keep playing high and mighty, I’m gonna put you down so hard that you will never see straight again, you hear me faggot?”

Kurt blinked rapidly, furrowing his brows a little as he shook his head, looking like he was trying to clear it.

Dave squared his shoulders, taking a deep breath as he glanced around to the group of boys slowly making their way over to them. Had to do something, something, something. “How about you get over here and do what bitches like you are made for. Lick my fucking boots!”

JJ let out a laugh and someone gave Dave a friendly pat to the back. Stupid motherfuckers. If only he could kill them all.

Kurt stared up at him with a slightly panicked look on his face, eyes wide as the boys around them started making rude gestures and muttering lewd comments in Spanish.

Dave kicked lightly at Kurt’s side, ignoring the catcalls and whoops coming from around them as he tried to shove away the guilt. “I said, lick my boots, boy.” 

Kurt's eyes were frantic. Dave took a deep breath.

Sorry, Fancy, but he’d sworn he’d get the little queen out of this hell in one piece, and he was going to make good on that promise. Even if it took a little tough love.

“Well? You speak English, bitch?” He reached down and grabbed Kurt by the hair, using it to tug him up enough to slap him lightly across the cheek. Kurt cried out, smacking at him angrily. It was so like the princess. Always throwing his hands around, never thinking to punch.

“Boots. Your pretty boy lips. Now!” He nudged at the boy with the toe of his boot and Kurt shot him a furious glare, his cheeks flaming red.

It was hard to keep a smug smile on your face when your nerves were screaming like Dave’s were. Come on, Fancy. Just fucking do it. If the bitch refused, Dave would have to punish him for real. And the other boys would expect more than just a slap to the face. Definitely bruises, broken bones preferred.

Kurt breathed in sharply, staring up at Dave with so much hatred it made the boy’s stomach turn. Dave clenched his jaw, swallowing down the sick feeling as the boy slowly pushed himself up onto his hands and knees then slowly lowered his head toward Dave’s feet.

Come on, come on, come on… This was killing him. Knowing Fancy, the boy would suddenly try and bite his ankle or something rather than lower himself to actually putting his lips to that leather.

Dave’s shoulders relaxed when the boy finally brushed his lips against Dave’s boot, a sick look on his face. It wasn't quite licking, but it was as far as Dave was gonna try and make the princess go.

The little queen just didn’t belong on the ground, licking some asshole’s boots.

“Thatta boy,” Dave said with a smirk, playing it up as the boys around him laughed, even though what he really wanted was to break all their faces.

He really needed to get Fancy out of here before he decided to mouth off again. The bitch had no clue what a dangerous fucking path he walked every time he opened his mouth.

“Come on, baby, I think it’s time for you and me to get a little one on one time in.” He bent down and grabbed Kurt around that slender waist, letting out a little grunt as he hoisted his small frame into the air and literally flung him over his shoulder.

Hey, the homo had always called Dave a caveman. Now he could play Jane.

Fancy Pants let out a screech and began to struggle against him, clawing at his back and trying to twist his way out of Dave’s arms.

Dave’s temper spiked. All the bitch had to do was play along! Just for a couple fucking days, lower himself off his throne and play along! Then he’d be out of this hell hole and he’d never have to feel what it felt like to be at Dave’s level again. Really, how could Fancy think that Dave believed the boy felt anything but fucking disgust for him if he couldn’t even bear to *pretend* to be the kind of loser Dave was for three damn days?!

“Stop struggling,” Dave snapped harshly. “You aren’t getting away.” He ignored the crowd of gangbangers’ many lewd—and rather imaginative—comments as he shoved through the gathering of boys and took off toward the cellblock, nodding at Martin as he reached the door. The guard buzzed him through without a word, as if Dave didn’t have a yelling, kicking boy slung over his shoulder like a sack of flour.

This was what people’s taxes were paying for?

Kurt finally gave up the struggle as they reached their cell, making an annoyed sound as he slumped down on Dave’s shoulder. "Will you let me go?!"

Irritating little bitch. Never could admit defeat. He wanted to be free. Fine. Dave smirked and tossed the bitch.

The smacking sound Kurt made as he hit the bunk was actually quite satisfying.

“OW! Dammit!” Kurt sat up, rubbing at his head, his face still burning. “What the hell do you think you’re doing, Karofsky?” he shouted, looking furious.

Dave threw his hands in the air as he began to pace the small cell nervously. “What am I doing? What am I *doing*? Trying to keep you safe, you stupid bitch! How many times do I gotta tell you that this isn’t the place to tout your politics or moral beliefs or fucking hair care routines!” Dave stopped pacing, smacking his hand against the wall. “This is jail, Hummel! The strong survive, the weak get eaten for breakfast! And *you* are weak. So every time you open you’re mouth like you’re big and strong, you get one step closer to bein’ knocked down off your high horse, shit on, and stomped to death!”

“I didn’t do anything!” Kurt snapped back, slapping his hands down on his thighs. “I don’t get what you want me to do! I sat on the floor, like you told me to!”

Yeah, after fifteen minutes of arguing.

“You shot off your mouth, Hummel! And that ain’t cool. It makes me look *weak*. And if I’m weak, then you’re just dead!”

Kurt let out a disbelieving laugh. “Did you enjoy making me kiss your boots? Huh? Do you have any idea how that made me feel?!”

“Humiliated? Worthless? Less than human?” Dave laughed harshly. “Yeah, I think I got a pretty good idea, Hummel. You aren’t the only one who’s been down on their knees. At least *I* didn’t actually make you lick ‘em!”

Kurt took a deep breath, gritting his teeth. “Your life sucks. I get it. But it seems to me that if you keep acting like this, you’re just headed down the same path!”

“I’m just trying to keep your worthless ass *safe*, dammit!” This bitch was just so *blind.* Dave wanted to scream. 

“What, by humiliating me?! Knocking me down?! Making me feel like a whore?!”

“No! No, no, no! I don’t want to make you feel—” He cut off abruptly, clenching his fists as he glared at the other boy. “If I wanted to ruin you, I’d do it, Hummel! I’d skip all the bitching and just take your pretty ass. I just want you to put your tiara away and get off that pedestal for a few days! I just want you to act like—”

“*Act* like?!” Kurt interrupted, eyes flashing. “How is making me kiss your boots in front of a bunch of boys *acting*? It's just plain humiliating. Very, very *real*!”

Oh, fuck this shit!

“You wanna know what you have to do to get along in this place? You want the *interactive* fucking tutorial?! Fine!” Dave shoved away any form of conscience he might have had left and grabbed at Kurt, making the boy squeal as he manhandled him until he was pressed face down on his bunk, Dave sitting on top of his legs. He dropped his weight down on the other boy, using his forearm to hold down Kurt as he struggled.

“Now spread your legs,” he grabbed at one of those struggling thigh, shoving them apart and then kneeling between them, using his lower legs to suppress the boy's attempts at kicks. “And get your ass in the air!” He yanked at Kurt’s hips, tugging them upward, sending Fancy’s face deeper into the lumpy mattress.

“Wh-what… what are you doing? Dave, stop! Stop it! Now!”

Dave gritted his teeth, shaking his head. No. Not yet. He wasn’t finished yet. “Let me tell you how I want you to *act.* I want you to act like you are all alone. So alone. Not a person in the fucking *world* who gives enough of a shit to help you. All you’ve got is an over-sized cell mate who has decided that there’s going to be some *mating* in your cell. You don’t wanna, but why even bother to say so? He’s gonna do it anyway.”

Kurt made a sound of protest as Dave maneuvered himself into an position where his upper body was pressing onto Kurt, his hips angled up against his buttocks. 

“Only you aren’t wearing any clothes. And he isn’t gonna be keeping it in his pants!” He thrust his hips pointedly, making Kurt whimper a little.

“Please, Dave, don’t do this. You don’t need to—”

“And then he spits in you and shoves it in,” Dave snapped, voice hard. "You don’t know if he’s got a condom or not, ‘cause your face is pressed so hard into the mattress,” Dave applied more weight to his upper body, burying Kurt’s face in the pillow, “that you can’t see a thing.” His voice cracked a little and he swallowed. God, he hated not being able to see. Almost as much as being trapped. It was just kind of, like, another way of being trapped. Not being able to see who they were or what they were doing.

“Dawwve.” Kurt’s voice was muffled by the pillow as he struggled to turn his face to the side. “Dave,” he said, breath coming heavy. It was hard to breathe when your face was shoved into a pillow. Dave knew from experience. “You need to stop this.”

The voice was annoyingly steady, despite tinges of stress, and Dave gritted his teeth, ignoring him.

“And maybe you’ve never had any before. So you don’t know if this is how it’s supposed to feel or not. All you know is that it hurts like hell. And you wanna scream and you wanna cry,” he choked slightly, “but even if you do, no one’s gonna hear you. Or maybe they will. But it doesn’t matter. Because you’re alone, and they’re not gonna care.”

Alone. All alone.

Dave thrust his hips again, digging his fingers hard enough into Kurt’s shoulders that the boy made a pained sound. “And it goes on and on and on and on. When’s it gonna stop? You don’t know. You got no control. You’re nothing. You’re nobody. What you thought was *yours*? That body they told you was yours? It’s not. And that’s when the absolute..." What was a word? A word to express the *feeling*... "The absolute *despair* starts to set in. There is nothing you can do. They grunt and sweat and shove and push and tell you what a fucking slut you are!” He slapped a hand down on the mattress, making Kurt flinch. “And all you can do is lay there!"

"Dave, please. Stop."

Dave let out a choked little laugh, leaning back a little. What was he doing? Fancy would never understand. Not until somebody did it to him. And then it would be too late.

Kurt took advantage of the lightened weight to twist around further, staring up at Dave with wide eyes. “Please, Dave. Just let me up, okay? Please?”

“NO!” Dave shouted suddenly, startling himself. “No, no, no! You don’t get to ask that! You don’t get to tell them! They’re just gonna do it!” He shoved his hips into Kurt’s ass again. “Little miss prissy, thinks he has a right to ask them. But you don’t! Because it’s not your body! They took it from you and you will never, ever get it back!” Another thrust. “They’ll do it again and again. And all you can do is accept it. It’ll hurt forever. But, oh well!” His laugh came out a little maniacal and he took a sharp breath. He needed to calm down. This was crazy.

“Dave…”

He shoved himself roughly off of Kurt, sitting back on knees. “So think about *that* the next time you’re going to be a sassy bitch! Try and get into *that* head space, Mr. Drama Queen. Next time you’re gonna open that mouth, think about how you’d act if you knew that tonight, and tomorrow, and everyday forever, I was gonna strip you down and take that body you thought was yours! How does *that* feel? Humiliating? Demeaning? Dehumanizing? Fucking horrible? Would you be all up in my face then? I don’t think so.” He waved a hand in the air. “So go win yourself an Oscar. But don’t tell me that I’m trying to make you *feel* like that! Because I know ways much more effective when it comes to breaking a boy than to make him kiss my fucking boots!”

Dave rolled off the bunk and moved across the cell, collapsing onto his own mattress as he buried his head in his hands. God, why couldn’t this be over? What *was* it about this little homo that turned him into such a fucking mess?

The cell was silent for Dave didn’t know how long, the only sounds soft movements from the other bunk. Dave didn’t even bother to look up. Poor kid was probably cowering in fright. Or looking at him in disgust.

Dave wasn't sure which was worse anymore.

“It’s not true, you know,” Kurt said quietly, his voice shaky but sure.

Dave looked up sharply. “Oh, yeah? You think you can just mouth off and it’ll be dandy? Fine! But know that you’ll be bringing down the one person in this place trying to *help* you when you fall, you little bitch.” He couldn't even summon up the energy to sound pissed, he was so drained. Why couldn't this just be *over*?

Kurt wrapped his arms around himself as he stared across the cell at Dave. God, he looked so delicate. Like a porcelain doll or some shit. Beautiful, but so easily broken.

Dave really didn’t want him to get broken.

“No, no… I meant that it’s still yours. Your body, I mean. Just because someone… steals something… doesn’t make it any less yours."

Dave gave a soft snort. Yeah, maybe where *Fancy* came from. In his hood it was finders, keepers.

“Yeah, yeah, maybe not in a psychotherapy philosophy way or whatever. But what the fuck does philosophical crap matter when your ass is theirs? Oh, it’s still *mine*, they just do whatever they want with it. Yippee. But it doesn’t matter if you have no control. You know what? Forget it. I should keep my trap shut. It’s not like your princess highness is gonna change. We’ll just have to figure out how to make it work.”

There was a long silence, then Kurt spoke softly, his voice a little embarrassed. “I… I don’t mean to do it, you know.”

Dave frowned, a little confused. “What?”

“To be, well, a bitch all the time. It’s just… a habit, I guess.” He bit his lip, looking uncomfortable. “See, I used to be really… open, I guess. Friendly and open. Just like my best friend. And we would have tea parties and play games and watch movies together…” A soft smile. “We were the sweetest pair. Everybody said so.” Kurt took in a deep breath. “But then my best friend died. And… I lost that gentleness. It hurt so bad when I lost her, and that sweet kindness was just so much a *part* of her… It was almost like it was taunting me, you know? And so I got kind of… hard, I guess. A gentle person, they’re so easy to hurt, you know? So I decided that I was going to be a sassy bitch. A diva. And that anybody who had a problem with it could go to hell.” Kurt made a sad sound. “But sometimes I wonder if my friend would like the person that I am now. I mean, I know she’d love me. But would she like it better if I had stayed gentle, like her?”

Dave studied him, brow furrowing a little. “Who was your friend?”

Kurt gave him a tight smile. “My mom. My best friend was my mom.” He shook his head. “Dave… you’re not the only person who became something else to keep themselves safe. And I think you can understand that, when you feel that attitude is sort of… your armor, I guess? It’s hard to let it go.” He laughed. “Even for your own good. I'm sorry.”

Dave swallowed hard. “You're sorry? Fuck, Hummel. Why don’t you hate me? I mean, how many times do I gotta practically *rape* you before you hate me?” He laughed, shaking his head at Kurt. “I mean, I fucking made you cry again.”

Kurt’s frowned, a confused look on his face as he raised a hand to his cheek then looked down at his hand, a sad smile coming over that pretty face. “Dave,” he said, voice soft, “these aren’t my tears.”

Dave blinked in confusion. “What?”

Kurt smiled again as he climbed off his bunk, moving over to Dave. “I knew you weren’t going to… hurt me… Dave.” He took Dave’s palm gently as he settled onto the bunk, directing the boy’s big hand to his cheek. “These,” he moved Dave’s hand toward his own face and Dave sucked in a sharp breath as his fingertips brushed against wet lashes, “aren’t my tears.”

Kurt wrapped his arms around Dave as he made a choked sound, swallowing deeply.

“It’s okay, Dave. It’s gonna be okay. We’ll figure it out. Happily ever after.”

Dave had heard that before, but he had never wanted to believe it more.

Happily ever after.


	11. Legally Batty

There was a loud clang against the bars of their cell and Dave sat up abruptly, glaring at the guard waving his stick in their direction with one hand, a smirk on his face as he fumbled with the keys with the other.

Wow, Dave was jumpy. Seriously, he was strung tight. Tighter than he was at school, where he had a fuse shorter than Hugh Hefner’s shriveled penis.

“Hello, boys. Lockdown is over early for you two. You have a visitor.”

Dave scowled, glancing over at Kurt. “For fuck’s sake, how many friends have you got, homo?”

Kurt stuck his nose in the air, pointedly ignoring the homophobic label that Dave probably considered a pet name. “I am quite popular with a certain crowd, even if the vast majority of McKinley was out to stain my every outfit with Red Number Two food coloring.”

“I liked the purple ones,” Dave replied almost thoughtfully.

“You’d like them less if it was in your eyes. And isn’t purple the *gay* color, Dave?”

The other boy blinked. “Wha? Uh-uh. I mean… No! Shit…”

Kurt laughed, shaking his head. “Joking, Dave. Just joking.”

“Oh. Right.”

The guard made an annoyed sound, running a hand through his thinning blonde hair. “Stand up, you two. Sorry, but this isn’t the Homecoming Queen and your Auntie Mildred here to see you. It ain’t that kind of visitor.”

Dave scowled, looking suspicious. “What the fuck does that mean?”

The guard smirked again, eyes dropping slightly as Dave stood and moved toward the door—was he checking Dave out? Kurt scowled deeply. This place was so, *so* fucked up. Kurt stood up, shoving his feet into the shoes he’d abandoned next to the bed and pushing his way in front of Dave, pointedly breaking the guard’s line of sight with Dave’s… lower parts.

The guard raised an eyebrow at him, a knowing look in his eyes and Kurt glared back at him. Sick bastard.

“Dude, Fancy, what’s your problem?” Dave said as Kurt elbowed him a little in his attempts to use his rather small body to block Dave's rather *large* body. It was not the best equation, but it was better than some creep looking at *his* Dave. Kurt blinked. His Dave? His Dave who was his *friend*, obviously. Friends didn’t let middle aged sickos check friends out. Or drive drunk. But that wasn’t really the immediate problem.

“Sorry,” Kurt replied, not taking his eyes off of Sleezy Nimrod over there. “So if it’s not Quinn Fabray and the Auntie Mildred I don’t have, then just who *is* here to see us?”

The guard’s lip turned up a little. “Dr. Mind Fuck wants to talk to you, faggot. Something about deciding if you’re too Charles Manson to be released or if you’re angelic enough to be let out on a hefty bail.” He nodded toward them. “And then he wants to talk to you, too, macho man. Guess you guys are gonna have some nice bonding time on the confessional couch. ‘Forgive me, doc, for I have sinned but I’m still pleading “not guilty”’ and all that shit. Now move it, Faggot and Fatty—shit that sounds like a fucking cartoon. Adult Swim version of Calvin and Hobbes. Let’s go.”

Kurt didn’t move. He was still stuck on the ‘Dr. Mind Fuck’ bit, which he was pretty sure translated to ‘psychologist’ in Redneck-ese. How could he have let that slip his mind? Even in all this madness, you’d have thought he’d remember that he would be meeting with the person who was to decide if he could stay or he could go. And God, he did *not* want to stay in this place.

But what sane person would let him leave?! Dave looked like he’d been hit with a battering ram! And how was it at all normal for him to hit him again and again and again and again, the blood pouring down his face… had there really been that much blood? There couldn’t have been that much blood because the pool gathering around Imaginary Dave was large enough to flood the hallway and if there had really been that much blood then Real Dave wouldn’t be breathing. Unless he was a zombie… Kurt cut off his frantic thoughts abruptly. Zombies? Oh God, he was officially going crazy.

Kurt’s face must have expressed his feelings because a big hand came down on his shoulder, rubbing it gently. Kurt blinked, waking out of the little haze of insanity he’d fallen into and looked up into that big, bruised face. Dave’s lips were turned up in a hesitant little smile, though it looked awkward due to the rather impressive cut on his mouth. Had that been from his father or had Kurt been the one to give him that?

Kurt winced. The fact that *anything* paired him with Dave’s father made him a little sick to his stomach.

“Relax, princess. They aren’t gonna send a doll like you off to the nutso ward. You’re a little angel compared to the fuck ups they’re used to seeing. They let me go free, didn't they?.” He chuckled a little--because of *course* a joke must be hilarious if Dave made *himself* the butt of it--and then leaned in, raising his hand and running a finger gently across the little twist of hair that Kurt smoothed down when he was nervous. Had Dave noticed the habit or had he just decided to touch his hair?

The guard gave a derisive snort and waved his hand. “Hurry up, homos. It’s the doctor’s orders. Need to go take your medicine. Maybe you’ll get an enema or something. That should make you queers happy.”

Dave’s face turned a rather frightening shade of red, his already mangled features twisting into something furious. Not good. Kurt reached out without thinking, grabbing Dave’s arm and the boy flinched, other arm raising slightly, and for a moment Kurt thought he was going to get a punch to the face. The Fury was heading for him for sure.

Oh God. Hopefully Dave would miss his nose.

Dave stared at him, features frozen for an instant, then relaxed under Kurt’s touch, lowering the other arm. 

Was it wrong to thank a God you didn’t believe in?

“Please don’t touch me suddenly like that,” Dave said out of the side of his mouth, dropping his eyes. “I don’t wanna hurt you on accident.”

Kurt let out the breath he’d been holding. Well, at least Dave didn’t look like he was going to hit the *guard* anymore, as sleezy a creeper bastard as he *obviously* was. It was kind of sad, that being touched made Dave turn into a killer. What would it be like to go through life never being touched? But that wasn’t really Dave's problem, was it? What would it be like to go through life thinking every touch was a threat? 

People needed touch. It was a scientific fact. And it really kind of made Kurt wanna hug him. But he didn’t want to get his jaw broken, so maybe not without asking first.

Dave reached out and squeezed his shoulder again. “Seriously, princess. Move. It’ll be alright. What’s the worst that could happen? Spend the rest of your life in a straight jacket? You could spend your days trying to touch your tongue to your nose!”

Wow, way to revive the terror there, Dave. What was the worst that could happen? Gee, hm, well, they *could* lock him away forever in a world of orange jumpsuits where moisturizing products were taboo and even scrawny pretty boys wanted to pimp him out for candy bars.

Kurt’s gut twisted. Dave didn’t understand. He didn't get what Kurt was going to have to explain. Dave had seen too much bad stuff over the years. He didn’t understand how absolutely *insane* it was to slam a book into someone’s face over and over and over and over and over and over—oh God, the ‘overs’ just kept coming. Way, way too many overs for a sane person.

The guard had set a pretty brisk pace and Kurt stumbled a little as he followed blindly, thoughts swimming through his head. Maybe he *was* crazy. What other excuse did he have for what he did? How could you rationalize slamming a book into Dave’s handsome face, making blood run down those cutely chubby cheeks…

And yeah, okay, Dave was violent as hell. But it wasn’t the *same* for Dave. There was obviously *reasoning* behind the stuff he did, and a shrink would understand that. The boy had spent his whole life being tormented, abused, and abandoned by the people who were supposed to love and care for him. Kurt had spent his life being cherished, adored, and protected. Yeah, he’d had his share of sad times and tough struggles, but, ultimately, he’d had a father who loved him more than anything in the world. And he’d definitely never been locked in a closet or sold for booze.

But he’d still beat Dave senseless, and all he could see was his own fury.

Fury. That’s what Dave called his fist… Maybe that’s what Kurt should name his textbooks. The thought made him giggle, and it must have come out a little maniacal because Dave and the guard both gave him a look like Mickey Mouse had just popped out of his ass and started singing.

No, he wasn't crazy *at all.*

“Okay,” the guard said as they came to a stop before a door next to the conference room where Kurt had met with his dad. “Karofsky, you’ll be waiting in the conference room for your turn—Hummel’s up to bat first.” He opened the door and unceremoniously shoved Kurt toward it, sending him tumbling into the room.

Kurt thought he heard Dave say that it would be okay, but he might have imagined it because the door slammed hard in his face the moment he turned around.

“Hello, Mr. Hummel!” Kurt jumped about a foot in the air, stumbling a little as he whirled around. God, he was coming off as real graceful today.

Were crazy people graceful?

Kurt's eyes found the desk set up at the far end of the room and he choked a little. Dear Lord, was someone *punking* him? The man was *tiny,* this had to be a joke--

Oh, that was politically correct. There was no reason that very-short-but-not-quite-a-Little-Person size people couldn't be doctors. Besides, he was pretty sure that the State didn't punk people.

But, seriously, the tiny man looked almost like a child, his shoulders only a few inches above the edge of the desk—or he would have looked like a child if children had scruff on their chins and receding hair lines.

Kurt locked eyes with him almost by accident, shifting nervously from foot to foot as the little man stared him down. Oh God, this was not good. The look on that man’s face was just frightening—

The man burst into a wide grin, clapping his hands together almost elatedly and gesturing for Kurt to come and sit across from him.

“Welcome, welcome! So you are Mr. Kurt Hummel! May I call you Kurt? Thank you, Kurt! I am the renowned and esteemed—mostly by myself—Dr. Batterhorn, but you may call me Dr. Batty. Most people do. A fabulous nickname, I say, though it did have a rather maudlin birth. An attempt to demean my rather unusual methods of psychology. However, I have always taken pride in being utterly truthful—and the truth is, I am batty indeed! And so the name stuck. But the knife meant for my metaphorical ribs did not fare so well! For I am more than content to be called Dr. Batty. Turnabout is fair play, they say—at least to those who do not hold themselves to a particularly high standard of morality, anyway.” He shifted the heavily framed glasses perched on his nose. “Ah, morality. The blessing and bane of mankind itself! Now, come, Mr. Kurt Hummel, and take a seat so that I may analyze you in a very doctoral manner. If we hurry we may even make it out of this wretched room in time for a nice lunch! Or at least afternoon tea. I could use a scone or two.”

Kurt blinked, mouth hanging open, as the rush of words finally same to a halt, doing his best to translate the fountain of madness that had just spewed out of the doctor’s mouth.

“Oh, forgive me, dear boy. Have I overwhelmed you? I am quite whelming and often bring it to the point of over. Don’t look so worried, lad!” He reached out, lifting himself out of his chair a little to pat the far side of the desk. “Just take a seat so that you and I may chat, doctor to prisoner, father to son, man to man, the batty to the possibly sane—whichever you prefer.”

Okay, well, he definitely couldn’t stand there forever with his mouth hanging open... but, really, when had he fallen down the rabbit hole? He was at the Mad Hatter’s tea party and he was the only guest. How terrifying.

Kurt steeled himself, rolling his shoulders and trying to look as dignified as one could when clothed in traffic cone orange. “Um, thank you Dr., uh, Batty.” He moved toward the desk, carefully settling himself in the metal folding chair set up across from the little man.

He certainly was a sight, this doctor turned Mad Hatter-minus-the-hat, his dark brown hair a crown around a very white balding spot in the middle, a few srands sticking up on one side as if he’d climbed out of bed and not bothered to comb it. His shirt was a dark green color with a couple of neon colored pens stuck in the pocket and it was paired, strangely enough, with a haphazardly knotted tie sporting Piglet pinning a tail on Eeyore while Winnie the Pooh sat in a tree above them, covered in honey. Not the most fashionable of outfits but somehow it worked for this strange man.

He couldn’t have been more than four and a half feet or so, but his shoulders were slim and proportionate, so he didn’t have the look of most Little People. But he was still so very small behind that desk. It should have been comforting, Kurt guessed, but it really just made him want to sink down in his own seat.

Kurt shifted uneasily in his chair, scooting it in a little, as the doctor opened a file, flipping through it without paying it any attention, his eyes focused on Kurt.

“So, Kurt, from what I have read in your file, you are quite the antonym of ‘troublemaker.’ Perhaps even the antonym of the boy noted as your victim, Mr., ah…” the doctor glanced down at the papers spread before him but, considering that the paper he had it open to was a piece of turquoise paper with the words ‘GROCERY LIST’ written at the top, Kurt had a sneaking suspicion that this odd doctor was putting on a show and that very few details slipped the mind of this little man. A performer recognizes its own kind, after all. “Oh, here it is, right under cauliflower and above Fruit Loops… Mr. David Karofsky. Yes, from what I can tell of the stick figure I drew next to his name while talking to the officers, you are *quite* the antonym of Mr. Karofsky. May I call him David? Thank you.”

“He prefers Dave,” Kurt said suddenly, then frowned a little, surprised by his own comment. He hadn't meant to say anything... Really, this man was just disconcerting.

“Oh, really? Dave, is it? I take it that you know Dave, then, if you know his preferences in way of nicknames. You must have some acquaintance beyond the casual look or book to the face in the hallway--whichever suits one's temper.”

Kurt shifted uncomfortably. Very uncomfortably. Seriously, this guy was like a frightening circus act. “Um, well, we’re not exactly BFFs or anything…”

“Ah. So you are simply at the 'name preference level' of acquaintance but not yet to the 'ice cream flavor preference level' when it comes to knowledge of Mr. Karofsky?” He raised an eyebrow, voice growing more serious. “Or is this, perhaps, a case of knowing one’s enemy?”

Kurt started slightly at that, suddenly annoyed for no real reason. “Dave’s not my enemy.”

“Hm. Yet it seems that you…” Dr. Batty once more made a show of consulting his file, turning the page to reveal a sheet of stickers in the shape of farm animals. “Hit him over twenty times in the face with a hardback book. This was a friendly attack?” Amusement sparkled in the man’s eyes and Kurt had to grit his teeth to keep himself from informing Dr. Batty just what he thought of his decidedly batty methods.

“Look, we weren’t exactly friends then, okay? He bullied me constantly. He’d shove me into lockers and call me names and threaten me…” Kurt’s chest tightened a little as the ghost of all those cruel words swept through him. “And then he attacked someone very close to me. And I just went sort of crazy, okay? I know that it wasn’t normal, I know that it wasn’t right, but I really didn’t mean to!” He leaned forward, setting his elbows on the desk as he appealed to the man. “And if I had known him *then* like I do now…”

Dr. Batty shifted his glasses, looking interested. “So I take it that you have become compatriots in your short career as Dave’s cell mate? Even more than friends, perhaps.” He cocked his head to the side, causing some of his untidy hair to fall over his bald spot. “One of the guards noted that ‘Big D,’ as he referred to him, has taken a more… personal interest in you.”

Kurt scowled. Fabulous. As if being gossiped about by the other boys wasn’t bad enough, now the guards were talking about them, too? 

“Look, Dave is just trying to protect me.”

“By raping you?”

Kurt’s eyes flashed with anger, a sudden rush of adrenaline racing through him. Who the hell did this man think he was? He didn’t know anything about them. He needed to pack up his stupid file of construction paper and stickers and leave them alone!

“He didn’t rape me! I mean… he…” Kurt choked slightly, his mouth suddenly dry as the memory of Dave’s hardness against him, of semen trickling down his thigh, of the humiliation and the terror passed over him. “He… he was just trying to protect me. He could have killed me, or really raped me, and I don’t think anyone would have cared. Or he could have just left me alone and it would have been worse than being dead, I think. But he didn’t. He risked a lot to help me…” Kurt trailed off, staring blankly down at the desk.

Dave *had* risked a lot for him, more than Kurt *wanted* to recognize. It was easier to pretend that he could walk around this place being the proud diva and dealing with the bullies himself just like he had at McKinley. But truth was, this was a whole new world—and not in a Aladdin and Princess Jasmine sort of way. This was *not* a world he wanted to stay in, but there was no flying carpet to escape on.

“I don’t want to stay here… I don’t want *us* to have to stay here…” Kurt’s voice was low and shaky. It was terrifying, having your whole life, your rights as a human being, depend entirely on another person’s decisions. Was this like an ultra-light version of what Dave had felt his entire life? “Please, we know what we did was wrong. Don’t make us stay here.”

“And by 'us' you mean you and Dave Karofsky.”

Kurt nodded numbly, staring pleadingly at the doctor.

“And your other friend, too.”

Kurt blinked. His other—? Oh, right, Puck. What the hell had he been thinking? How could he have forgotten about Puck? Dave may have been there for him these last few days, but Puck was the one who had pulled Dave off of Finn in that locker room!

“Of course! Puck, too.”

Dr. Batty studied him seriously, steepling his fingers beneath his chin. “Mr. Hummel, is Mr. Karofsky your lover?”

Kurt started. “What? No, of course not!” He shook his head a little madly. “No, we’re not… God. I’ve never even had sex!”

The doctor leaned back a little in his chair. “Do you want to be his lover?”

“God, no, of course not!” Kurt said, stumbling over the words. “I mean, I care about him a lot and I want to help him ‘cause he’s really been through so much. But lovers? No! I mean, maybe we’ve kissed but that doesn’t mean so much. He’s a Neanderthal for goodness sakes. Well, a very attractive Neanderthal once you get him out of those off brand polo shirts.”

“So you wouldn’t be interested in having a… sexual relationship with Dave?”

Kurt bit his lip, chewing it nervously. “No. No! I care about him, but… No… Besides, I don’t know that Dave will ever be ready to have a lover. He’s pretty messed up when it comes to sex. I think maybe he’s starting to accept that he’s gay. But I don’t know if he’ll ever be able to be with a man like that and enjoy it…” Kurt trailed off. Why was there a lump growing in his throat?

Dr. Batty raised an eyebrow. “So you think his past has ruined him?”

Another surge of annoyance shot through Kurt. “Ruined? Fabulous word choice there, doctor. Very sensitive. Of course he’s not ruined! I just think that it might always be a duty for him, because of his past. Like, maybe, something he would do so a person would love him—if he ever believes a person could love him. Not that I would ever want to have actual sex with him or anything like *that*. But just in general. Like, in the future.”

“It seems you’ve thought quite a lot about this boy, Kurt,” Dr. Batty said idly. “These are quite some theories you’ve created about Dave’s past. How long have you had this fascination with him?”

Kurt’s mouth dropped open. “Fascination? I don’t have a fascination! We’ve just spent a lot of time together lately and I’ve heard some things about his past and it’s made me think.”

“In the two days that you have been in detention together.”

Kurt furrowed his brow. Two days? Was that really all it had been? It seemed like so much longer. But it *had* just been two days, hadn’t it? Dave’s face was nowhere near healed, still sporting ugly purple bruises, and the hair growing back on Kurt’s legs was just stubble. But somehow it seemed like he’d known Dave for a really long time. Or maybe all the things he knew about Dave had just started to make sense.

 

“Hey, homo.”

Kurt winced as Karofsky’s hulking form appeared from Neverland or wherever else he hid. Really, where did he *come* from? Did he hide in a locker, ear pressed to the vent just waiting to hear Kurt’s voice and spring? No, there was no way in hell that fat ass could fit in a locker. Had he planted some sort of surveillance equipment around the school just so he could appear without fail right where Kurt was walking, at least once a day?

“Get lost,” Kurt mumbled, trying his best to resist the urge to just turn tail and run as fast as he could in the other direction. He could take the long way to the choir room, around the outside of the entire school.

“You look gay.” Karofsky’s voice was cutting and Kurt glared.

“Yes, well, I suppose that works out considering that I *am* gay. Now, if you will excuse me…” Kurt attempted to push around the bigger boy. He was only a few precious feet from the choir room… if he could *just make it through the door…

An enormous hand engulfed Kurt’s wrist painfully, yanking him back, and Kurt let out a cry.

“Who do you think you are to come to school looking like that?! It hurts my eyes, queer.”

Kurt opened his mouth to reply that if Kurt hurt his eyes, looking in the mirror would probably blind him but was saved from what probably would have resulted in several bruises as Puck walked up to them, a scowl on his face.

“Yo, Karofsky! What the hell is your problem, asshole?” Puck shoved the boy and Karofsky released Kurt’s aching wrist, returning the other football player’s shove.

“My problem is how many homos we have walking our halls these days. You play for the other team now, Puckerman? This your booooyfriend?”

Puck’s eyes flashed and he shoved Karofsky again. Oh, these jocks and their shoving.

“Go to hell, Karofsky. You smell like garbage. You been sleeping in the dump again or is it just your natural scent, Dave Copperfield.”

“Screw you, Puckerman!” Kurt scrambled back as the big boy shoved Puck hard against the lockers, planting a beefy arm on either side of his head. “Suck my dick.”

“Sorry, Karofsky. Not my thing. Ask your mama. I bet she’d be *glad* to do it. Might even want to have your baby, you inbred bastard. She can suck your dick, you can suck your dad’s, and you can all have a dicksucking good time, cocksucker.”

Kurt cried out, hiding behind his own hands as Karofsky’s fist slammed hard into Puck’s gut and the boy collapsed to the ground, grunting as Karofsky’s worn out sneaker found its way to his ribs. He drew back to kick again and Kurt started forward without thinking, grabbing Karofsky’s arm.

“Stop it, dammit!”

The big boy practically roared and yanked it away, stumbling back with wide eyes, his teeth bared.

“Don’t touch me, homo! I don’t want your kind touching me!”

“Oh for God’s sake! It’s not contagious, you ignoramus!”

Kurt winced as Dave was suddenly in his face. Why, why, why couldn’t he ever keep his mouth shut?

Karofsky’s voice was barely a whisper. “I said, don’t touch me. If you ever touch me again, I will make you very, very sorry. Got it?” With those words he gave Kurt another shove then turned on his heel and stalked off in the other direction.

Kurt stared after him, breathing heavily. There was something *seriously* wrong with that boy.

 

“Look, Dr. Batty,” Kurt said, feeling a sudden urge to direct the conversation down just about any other path than the History of Kurt and Dave. “You said you wanted to make it out of here in time for tea, so maybe we should get down to it.” He leaned forward in the chair, placing his palms flat on the desk, voice very serious. “I know what I did was wrong. And maybe even a little… insane. I mean, to hurt someone like that, over and over, just because I was mad… Violence is never the answer and I really don’t know what happened.” Great, he’d just called himself insane. Good job, Kurt. Why didn’t he just buy himself a one way ticket to the land of the padded rooms? “I am so, *so* sorry that I did it. I wish that I could go back in time and take it back—”

“You wish you could go back in time and take it back,” Dr. Batty cut in, looking intrigued for God knew what reason. “But would you, Mr. Hummel? If you were to go back in time and be that exact person at that exact moment with the same feelings and knowledge and ideas—would you do things differently? An honest answer, Kurt.”

Kurt frowned as the words swam in his head. An honest answer… if he went back in time and nothing had changed would he do it again? Of course not! Except, he would, wouldn’t he? Because if nothing had changed and he was just that person in that place again, why would his response change? “I… I don’t… I mean, I wish *now* that I hadn’t done it, and if I could go back knowing what I know now—”

“But you can’t.” Dr. Batty’s voice was brisk. “So answer me. If you were that person once more, what would you do?”

Kurt took a deep breath and nervously ran a fingers across his bangs, smiling briefly as he remembered Dave’s finger across them. “Well… if nothing had changed… then I guess the same thing would happen.” He winced as the words came out of his mouth. Fabulous. Did straight jackets came in pink tartan? Because he was going to be in one soon. Talk about crazy.

But maybe this Dr. Batty man was crazy, too, because a smile was spreading across his face. “Indeed. Because you know what, Mr. Hummel? We cannot change the past. If we *did* go back it would just be the same story playing over and over again, because we would once more be the us of then and all the things we learned in the future would be lost.”

Kurt raised an eyebrow. “I dunno, it worked pretty well in Harry Potter.”

Dr. Batty chuckled. “Yes, well, unfortunately for us, Time Turners are the things of story books and flying telephone booths are no more real. There is no point in worrying over the past, Kurt, because we cannot change it. I can tell you have a kind heart, and I see real pain in your eyes when you speak of terrible events of the past—your past, Mr. Karofsky’s past--likely a boy like you would feel something for *anyone* with a sad past. But in my professional opinion as a child psychologist—the best thing to do now, Kurt, is move on.”

He reached out and squeezed one of Kurt’s hands gently, a sympathetic look on his face.

“And most of all, don’t give up. The past colors our lives, but it does not dictate how the brush of the future will move across the canvas. Human beings are amazing and, like artists, they have a way of taking old spills and splatters and making something beautiful and new. People can heal, even from the most traumatic events. So don’t give up on your own art… and don’t underestimate the talent of people you care about—sometimes the most stained of canvases can produce the most beautiful paintings.”

Dr. Batty leaned back, suddenly all grins once more. "So! Let's bring in Mr. Karofsky and get this party started!"


	12. Prisonella

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, kids, seriously coerced dub-con that is pretty much non-con in this. It's just a few pieces of action interspersed between lots of Dave POV thoughts, but it is there and it's NC-17, so if you don't like non-con, well... It's not very graphic but it may be unsettling to you. You can kind of skip through it but, like I said, it's a few lines interspersed with inner monologue-ing, so... yeah. Just a head's up!

Dave pushed himself away from the wall that he’d smacked into with a groan, shooting a glare over his shoulder at Guard Asshole. Couldn't he go a day without someone pushing or hitting him? Just once? Was God *trying* to permanently disfigure him or something? He was starting to look like an oversized Tyler Durden. Or maybe some kind of flower, his face was blooming in so many colors. Red and purple, black and blue, with a few sickly green bruises to top it off. There certainly weren’t no beauty queens at this locality.

Dave’s vision swayed and he grabbed at his pounding head as the conference room door slammed shut behind the guard. The very gangster-movie-worthy looking guard. Great.

“Well, well, well, look what we have here.” Small wrinkles appeared on the guard’s over-tanned face as his mouth turned up in a leering grin. "Got us a prisoner, huh?" The man jutted his hips out crudely and Dave had to force himself not to roll his eyes. It would have made his head hurt too badly. But you had to love that redneck class. It went well with the bastard's oversized belt-buckle and the naked woman wrapped in a US flag tattooed on his arm.

“What are you, the big bad wolf?” Dave snapped back, glaring defiantly at him. “You gonna huff and puff and blow my ass down?”

The guard gave a short laugh, smirking slightly. “Oh, I think other things will be… blown. Though I wouldn’t mind seeing your ass on the ground.”

Dave snorted. “Wow, that was witty. You should be on SNL or something. If SNL stood for Saturday Night Losers.”

The guard scowled deeply and moved toward him, making Dave grimace. He probably shouldn't egg the bastard on. But it was just so easy sometimes...

"Judging by your attire, you might be better off on the Redneck Comedy Show, though."

The man's face twisted up a little as he grabbed Dave’s shirt in two fists and dragged him forward, eyes narrowed threateningly. "I don't know what tires you're talkin' about, but I suggest you shut your hole!" He sneered. "Or is that a no-no for you, faggot? Get it? Gotta keep your 'holes' open?" He laughed as Dave narrowed his eyes. Yeah. He got it. Schmuck.

“So. You’re Dave Karofsky.”

“No, I’m Tyra Banks,” Dave shot back. “Didn’t you see my article in The Enquirer? I gained two hundred pounds and hooked up with Michael Jackson’s dermatologist.”

The guard look confused for a moment then his eyes narrowed again. “HahaHA, Mr. Funny. Well, you’re gonna be hookin’ up with someone *else* now. Maybe Michael Jackson’s *gyno*cologist.”

“Dude. Seriously? Your lines are lame. Lamer than my lines, which are pretty lame themselves. Michael Jackson didn’t have a vagina and neither do I, all mangina jokes aside. What the fuck do you want?” He shoved the man away, yanking his shirt out of the guard's hands, eyes flickering nervously toward the conference room door. 

How fucking long were they going to take in there? God, he hoped Kurt was okay. He had to be okay. There was no way anyone could possibly justify keeping a princess like that in a place like this. Just the idea was twisted. Like Ru Paul in Compton. Except Ru Paul could probably take care of himself. More like Elton John, maybe, or the little blonde dude in ‘Queer Eye for the Straight Guy.’

“Oh, so we’re the big comedian, are we? I bet I’m gonna get me a few laughs outta you, boy!” Dave looked back at the guard sharply, jaw tightening at the leer on the bastard’s face.

"I don't think I like what you're implying."

A loud laugh. "I don't give a fuck if you like it--as long as *I* like it."

Dave's stomach twisted a little as a grin spread across the asshole's face. Oh, God. This was not good. *So* not good. The sick smile on that fucker’s face? Dave had seen that look before, many a time. Mostly from on his back, but sometimes from the side, or even twisted around when he was taking it from behind.

Okay, time to instigate Operation: Don’t Panic. He would just take a deep breath and a few steps back and everything would be all right. It was just a smile, after all. Sticks and stones could break his bones but a smile couldn't hurt him.

Yeah. Of course it couldn't.

 

“Well, aren’t you pretty?”

The Danger seemed to pulse in the air around him as Dave stared dully into Nothing. His muscles clenched tight--so tight it hurt--but it was the only way to keep himself from struggling against the rough twine holding him to the bed frame. There was no use in struggling. It would just leave bruises and cuts on his wrists and it sure as hell wouldn’t help him escape the Danger. Not when he couldn’t even tell where the Danger was.

There was a soft stroke against his cheek and Dave flinched, choking down a whimper before it could escape from his lips. The Voice had come from in front of him, but someone had touched his face. Had The Voice moved or was it another man? Two other men? A thousand other men? He couldn’t tell, not with the bandanna tied tightly across his eyes.

Deep breath in, slow exhale. Calm. He needed to stay calm. Because if he did anything else, he might just go crazy.

A touch against his thigh made him jerk and a Voice from off to the side laughed.

“Aw, y’know what? I think I wanna see your scared little eyes.”

In an instant the dark Nothing was gone and Dave was left squinting into the light at the shadowy figures standing over and beside him. He blinked rapidly, a little whine escaping as a face bent over him, a wicked smile growing on it as a big, warm hand reached down to caress places it shouldn't.

Dave choked back a sob as he stared up into his Pops' face. *God*, he hated that smile.

 

It was just a smile. A smile couldn't hurt him.

“Yeah, I’m a regular comedian.” Dave snapped at the guard, trying his best to steel his nerves. Too bad all he had was bullshit to barricade with. Some actual steel would have been nice. Maybe a little titanium, too? “Now what the fuck do you want with me?”

The guard chuckled as he made his way over to the viewing window, slowly twisting the rod to close the plastic blinds--this room's last eyes to the world.

Why did covering one little window suddenly make Dave feel as though a bandanna had just been wrapped around his face. He was Not Alone in the dark again.

“Let’s just say that *I* am your new best friend.” He smirked, reaching up to stroke the grey stubble on his cheek in an almost comically villainous sort of way. The bastard.

Dave flashed his teeth as the man moved back toward him, lifting his shoulders to make himself look as big as possible. “Fuck that,” he snapped back. “I’m not up for grabs.” Not with the one person who knew about Dave and still cared about him so close that Dave could practically smell him. He wasn’t giving that up for anything, especially for something as cheap as a prison guard’s good graces. He wasn't, wasn't, *wasn't* going to lose Kurt. And, yeah, he didn't exactly have the best track record for holding on to people. Life wasn't a fucking fairy tale, after all. But if there was any chance of a sort-of-happy ever after life out there, who better to live it out with than a princess like Kurt?

Dave paused at his own thought, brow furrowing a little. Happily ever after? A princess like Kurt? He sounded like Suzie Pepper before her throat lobotomy. But it was true, wasn’t it? As much as he’d fought it, that was what he’d always wanted--and not just since he’d pressed his lips against Kurt's. A sort-of-happily ever after where someone would like him for *him,* not for the state money they’d get or how nice it would make them look to help him or how well he rolled in bed or how good he was at sports. He’d just wanted someone, *anyone*, to like him, no strings attached. Maybe even care about him a little. But he’d been so afraid, always keeping people at arms length so that he wouldn’t get hurt when, as always, the fairy tale high wore off and he was kicked to the curb. 

Because he *was* a disappointment, like Cinderella in her dirty dress. Only he didn't wash up so easily. Dave ‘The Mistake’ Karofsky. The truth hurt, but that didn’t make it any less true. Unlike fairy tales. Yet Kurt knew about him, about the fucked up kind of person Dave was, and he still didn’t hate him for it. So fuck the world, Dave Karofsky wasn’t going to be The Mistake anymore. He wasn’t going to do this shit anymore.

He wasn’t going to lose Kurt. He couldn’t. Not now that he knew what it was like when someone actually cared. Not when it looked like he could maybe have an almost-fairy-tale ending. Thanks to a fairy, appropriately enough.

“How about you back the fuck off and we pretend this never happened? Or else you might be making best friends with my fist.” Dave said, crossing his arms over his chest in a way he knew was very, very threatening. Another shout out to his old man for well taught lessons on badassness.

The guard let out a loud laugh, swinging his stick as he stepped closer to Dave. The boy’s whole body tensed in anticipation. He would put this fucker in his place, screw the consequences. He wasn’t gonna be *that* anymore. The pity and understanding and all that shit that was probably overloading Kurt’s brain right now only went so far, Dave knew that well. A lesson learned early. And he was *not* going to end up standing on Fancy’s curb with twenty bucks in his pocket and no place to go, his carriage turned back into a pumpkin. He was not going to lose the only person he’d ever told about… about *that.* The only person who knew he was… was… well, a fairy.

God, it hurt just to think it.

“See this is how it is, Big D. Your Daddy made a little deal with me. You are bought and paid for, big boy, and I’m afraid you don’t got much say in it.”

The anger surged and Dave had to dig his nails into his own palms to keep himself from leaping at the sonofabitch. Who the hell did his Pops think he was?! Was he really so desperate for booze that he’d sell his son’s ass through *prison bars*?! Did his old man really believe that Dave was still some helpless kid who would fuck whoever so the old bastard could make love to a tequila bottle?! Screw that. Dave may have put his own ass out there for his old man on occasion, but his Pops was *not* his pimp, had not been his pimp since Dave was too small to know he should say ‘no’—and, yeah, also a couple of times in junior high and maybe once in ninth grade. And tenth. But the point was, he wasn’t his pimp no more. Screw this!

Dave took a sudden step forward, feeling satisfied when the guard flinched a little. “Whatever deal my old man made with you ain’t valid here, bastard.” He sneered. “I mean, where’s your admission ticket, huh? Think you got a season pass to my ass? Because I don’t think so!”

The guard laughed coldly, shaking his head as he reached out, stroking at Dave’s cheek. Dave jerked away, scowling. "Hands off!"

The man just laughed again. “You know, you’re pretty mouthy for merchandise, Karofsky.”

Okay, ouch. And they said words couldn't cut. But he had to keep himself under control. He had to remember, there was no pain. Just anger. Fury. Use the pain, make it something else, and then it couldn’t hurt you… 

“I ain’t nobody’s merchandise! So get the fuck away from me!” Dave made to shove the guard, but the man slammed his knee into his thigh. He stumbled, making a furious sound as the guard clamped down painfully on his arms. 

“Listen here, D, and you listen good! You gonna be a good boy and give me what I paid for or I’m gonna tell this whole damn prison that you’re a faggot whore!”

Dave choked, trying and failing to pull free of the sonofabitch. He would *what*? Oh, God, no… With everything that had gone down in the past couple of days, he would be *screwed*. Sammy Girl would be thrilled.

“Yeah, don’t like that much, do ya, son?”

No, he didn't like that at all. Shit! “Oh yeah?" Great comeback there, Karofsky. Dave took a deep breath, mind racing. "Well… Well… Why the hell would they believe a pig like you?” Dave shot back, voice shaking a little as he shoved the guard off of him. Talk about grasping at straws. This panic was killing him. He just needed to calm down. This fucker wasn’t big and bad enough to hurt him and Dave *wasn’t* going to give in. He was not gonna be that kind of person anymore. He had a chance and he was gonna be the type of person that someone could l… lo… lov—well, that they could at least care about. Yeah. The kind of person someone could care about. Sort of-happily ever after.

The guard laughed again. “With the way you’ve been acting around that little bitch? I think they’d believe me.”

Dave swallowed hard. He just needed to stay cool. “Like hell they would. *I’ve* proven myself. You’re not one of us. You’re the fuckin’ enemy. The boys will never take your word over mine.” That’s right. From the guard’s mouth to the shit pile. Dave had standing, status. He was strong. Acknowledged.

The guard laughed derisively. “You think I woulda paid fifty bucks for your ass without some kind of, well, as you put it, *admission ticket*?” He laughed again and Dave’s heart pounded faster, blood pumping. What the fuck was he talking about?

“By the way, you looked damn good on camera, kid. And shit, that was a lot of dudes. Lookin’ pretty slutty there. Bet the G Kings would love to see you strut your stuff.”

Dave’s stomach plummeted. God, no. If his Pops really had given this fucker a tape… God, he was screwed.

Well, at least the feeling of complete and utter defeat was familiar. Like an old friend. An old bastard of a friend.

Dave glanced toward the door, tongue flicking out nervously. He had no choice—yet another oh so familiar feeling. But what if Kurt came back? Knowing and seeing were very, very, *very* different things and somehow Dave didn’t think that Kurt would be quite so generous if he actually saw Dave bent over a table. That was *so* not out of a fairy tale.

The guard raised an eyebrow as he followed his gaze. “Aw, you worried about me gettin’ caught? Don’t worry, kiddo, I’ll be find. Dr. Weirdo and faggot are gonna be in there a good, long time. Long enough, anyway.”

“Because you don’t last long?” Dave snapped, grimacing as the man’s hand met his cheek suddenly.

“Watch your mouth, bitch, or I’ll spill the beans about your queer revolution to all the lads in lockdown, you hear me?”

Dave gritted his teeth, taking a deep breath. Okay… it would all be okay. He just needed to change his line of thinking. He could do this without Kurt hating him, as long as he didn’t get *caught*. He would pull it off. He had to. When you had no choice you just had to roll with the punches and make the best of the shit they gave you. Kurt would never know. He’d make sure Kurt never know. And if he ever actually got out of this hell hole, he’d make sure it never happened again. Because this kind of shit didn't happen in fairy tales.

Dave would do everything he could to make sure that Fancy never saw for himself how low Dave could go—even if it meant giving a big farewell to his Pops, the only steady thing in his life he’d ever had. And, yeah, maybe his old man wasn’t the *best* kind of steady, but he had always been there, drunk and terrifying. You could bet on it. 

New things were scary, but Kurt was a *good* new thing and Dave was gonna make sure he never did anything to test just how far the princess would go with the pauper before she saw him for what he was and kicked his fat, freak ass into the mud then rolled over him with her glass pumpkin carriage or whatever.

God, he had to get these fucking fairy tale metaphors out of his mind. They were just starting to get freaky.

The guard stared at him in silence, an amused smirk on his face as Dave tongued his cheek nervously, eyes flickering from the floor to the guard back to the floor again. There was no getting around it. What had to be done, had to be done.

And Kurt would never know.

Time to suck it up for the coin flip. “Whaddya want?” Dave mumbled, his face burning. It was amazing how some things never got any less humiliating. You’d think he’d be used to strange men putting their hands on him by now.

The guard laughed and ran a hand through his graying hair, shoving Dave aside to lean against the conference table. “Hm… how bout you get on your knees, son?”

Ah, looked like the coin had landed on heads. Great. Now he’d get to spend the rest of the day with jizz in his teeth. Was it better than spending it with a sore ass? You really couldn’t compare them. They both fucking sucked. Bad pun intended.

“Yeah, whatever,” Dave mumbled, doing his best to still his thoughts. He had to get through this, and you didn’t get through this sort of shit by thinking. A mind out of body experience was what this crap called for, if you wanted to stay sane. Like Kama Sutra for the mind.

Dave swallowed hard, staring hard at the thin, worn out office carpet as he awkwardly climbed down onto his knees, reaching around the guard to steady himself against the table. God, this was so ridiculous. Somehow they always made dropping to your knees look so pretty and graceful in the movie, like you could just float down to the floor, whether you were about to suck dick or get shot in the head. In reality it just looked kind of pitiful, him lowering his oversized, fat ass down so his face could be at groin level. Of course, everything about fucking looked kind of ridiculous, didn’t it? Like a slapstick comedy act gone bad. The Bedroom Stooges. Shit, that sounded like a porno. Probably *was* a porno somewhere. No porno surprised him anymore.

Dave inhaled deeply, steeling himself as he looked up at the bastard. The guard just continued to smirk down at him, giving him a little shrug. Okay, apparently it was beyond the jerk’s abilities to pull it out for himself. Schmuck.

Dave let out a sigh as he reached up, fumbling with the big belt buckle for a moment before undoing the button and lowering the zipper. The bastard was already half hard. Sick faggot.

“Dude, you’re gonna have to move.” Dave’s voice was emotionless, which was funny considering the continuous waves of pain, anger, and humiliation washing over him, one after the other. Dave took a deep breath. Calm. Just stay calm. 

“What?” The man’s voice was distracted, hand reaching down to tug at Dave’s hair.

Dave made an annoyed sound. Idiot. “You’re leaning on the table, genius. I can’t get your pants down if you’re leaning on the fucking table like that.”

“Hm? Oh. Oh, right.” The guard angled his hips forward enough for Dave to tug his pants down to mid thigh, taking the boxers with them. Confederate flag boxers. How redneck. No wonder this bastard got along with his Pops so well.

The man's dick twitched and Dace grimaced. Wow, what a lovely sight. He shoved the pain away. He had no choice; he needed to roll with the punches. No choice.

The guard ran a rough palm against Dave’s face. “Pull yours out.”

Pull his out? Dave gritted his teeth, keeping his face carefully blank as he stared dully at the half-hard cock before him. If this bastard wanted him to play excited, well, it wasn’t happening. Dave was exhausted, his face hurt like hell, and he felt like he was fucking Atlas, with the whole earth on his shoulders—and maybe Uranus, too—since he’d walked into that cell with Kurt for the first time. He wasn’t all that good at role-playing when he was at his best, much less at a time like this.

Dave wasn’t even sure, exactly, what you were supposed to act like when you were being fucked. Moans and stuff, yeah, he’d figured that one out from porno… but when were you supposed to moan? When they shoved into you and it burned like hell had just come down in your ass? After they’d been going at it for fifteen minutes and their sweat was dripping in your face? When they decided to get rough and started smacking your ass and yanking on your hair?

“I said, pull it out.”

Dave started, shaking his head a little. “Wha… why?”

The guard made a face and smacked him lightly against his already abused head. God, how many times was this bastard gonna smack him? Didn't he have enough bruises? “Just do it, bitch.”

Dave rolled his eyes and reached down, shoving the elastic waistband of his orange pants down enough to reveal his limp dick. “There,” he said dully, staring at nothing. “Happy?”

“I’ll be happy when you shut the fuck up and get on with it,” the guard replied, reaching down again to run his hand through Dave’s hair again.

Dave couldn’t help but shiver. God, he hated that feeling. All of these feelings. How could be *be* this, if he hated it so much? It made no sense, whatever Kurt said.

The cock in front of him twitched again and Dave grimaced a little. He was more turned on by the thought of eating those bulimic Cheerios’ vomit for breakfast than this. That just made him feel sick to his stomach. This made him want to be the one vomiting.

Dave reached out, running fingertips lightly along the shaft of the man’s cock, doing his best to pretend that he was somewhere else. Like at home. Or in a coffin.

Seriously, why the fuck would anyone *want* to do this? Were gays just sick like that? Maybe they were all just nasty, sick, disgusting faggots.

But no. Kurt was gay. And Kurt wasn’t sick or disgusting. Fancy was like… like an angel with an attitude. But he *was* gay, which meant that, someday, he’d be doing *this.* Why, why, why would anyone *want* to do this?

“Got a condom?” Dave blinked at the sound of his own voice. It was weird to hear yourself talk without even realizing that you were speaking. But it was the best way to survive things like this. You just had to cut yourself off, went somewhere else, anywhere else. It was the only way to keep from drowning in the pain.

The guard waved a hand dismissively, making a small sound of annoyance. “I’ll pull out.”

“Fuck that,” Dave retorted, leaning back a little. “I may be a whore, but I’m not stupid. Use a condom or I’ll take my chances with the G Kings.” He paused, a little dramatically. Time to go in for the kill. “Y’know, I’ve sucked guys with the sores. They say that the ‘gift that keeps on giving’ can go from mouth to dick, dude.”

The guard started, eyes widening a little before he composed himself, clearing his throat in an obvious attempt to get back in control. 

The herpes bluff *always* got to them. Well, unless they already had it, anyway.

“Right…” The man dug into his pocket, pulling out his wallet. Wow, he kept a rubber with his driver’s license and dollar bills. How classy. 

“Fine. Condom. But I wanna pull it off and come on you.”

Dave shrugged, beyond caring at this point. The out of body was starting to fade with this lovely conversation. Time to go into auto-pilot don’t-give-a-fuck mode. Cum in his mouth, in his hair--let the bastard come wherever he wanted, as long as Dave didn’t end up positive. It wasn’t like this shit could get any more humiliating than it already was.

God, if Kurt saw him now…

Shit, the pain was back. He *really* needed to stop thinking about Fancy.

Dave took a deep breath through his mouth, not wanting to know just what this fucker’s private part smelled like, and reached out, pumping lightly at the bastard’s cock. Time to get this show on the road and be done with it.

He licked his lips, wincing as his tongue scraped against a cut. This was gonna be *real* fun with all his bruises and shit. Seriously, could his life get any better? Because what could be better than *this*? He should just accept it: he was a fag, this was gonna be his life from now on. What a joy!

Sarcasm may have been the lowest form of wit, but at least it helped Dave keep his bitterness under control. Sort of. Mostly.

Dave directed the tip of the man’s cock into his mouth, doing his best to ignore the sickness in his gut. He pressed the head into his cheek, suckling at it as he bobbed his head lightly.

He was a fag. A queer. A homo. This… it was going to be all he had. Faggot sex. It was what he had been destined to be from birth. Who the fuck would have thought that his Pops was actually right?

Dave choked a little, and it wasn’t from the dick in his mouth.

The cock in his mouth pressed deep into his cheek as the guard began to thrust lightly and Dave did his best to keep from drooling too much from the uncomfortable angle.

“Aw, don’t you look so pretty, baby?” A coarse laugh.

Dave’s cheeks grew red. The sick, sick fucker. They were all so fucking sick. Maybe he could understand how *he* was one of them—Dave *had* been doing this sick shit all his life so maybe it was just what he deserved. But Kurt… how could *Kurt* be one of them? How could any sane person *enjoy* this? What the hell was the appeal?

Dave couldn’t even imagine what would make it worth it, to be degraded like this when you didn’t *have* to be. Was it just that you made the other person feel good? Was that it? If it was Kurt instead of this motherfucker thrusting into him, would the knowledge that he was making him happy really be enough to overcome the pain of something pressing too far down into a place it wasn’t meant to go, of hearing them grunt as their fingers tugged at your hair? He had wanted to make his Pops happy, to do what he wanted so that his old man would love him, but it hadn’t made the actual ‘doing’ any more bearable.

Dave shifted slightly, running his tongue down the shaft of the man’s cock as it popped out of his cheek and slid down his throat, rough, curly hairs tickling against his nose. The dude really needed to trim.

*What* could possibly be worth this?

God, he shouldn’t even be thinking this shit. That was sick in itself. And the crap about Kurt? Had Dave lost his mind? Fancy had said he’d help him, not marry him. Whether Dave could do this sort of stuff with Kurt or not didn’t fucking matter because one thing was for sure: Kurt deserved way better than Dave Karofsky. Even if Dave was *sure* he was actually… well… *gay*, even if he was *sure* he could ever do… *this* because he wanted to… who the fuck would want to be with him? Yeah, he had bedroom skills, or whatever the polite word for a good fuck was, but he’d been thoroughly used and was far from mint condition.

The guard moaned loudly as Dave used his tongue to massage around the shaft of the man’s cock. Maybe *that* was it? Maybe hearing a person you… cared about… moan like that was enough to make it worth it? Enough to give up your body, to let someone use it for whatever they pleased, if you could just hear how good it was. He’d like to hear Kurt moan like that.

Whoa, hold up. Where the fuck were these thoughts coming from? God, he was losing his mind, and had been since his lips had pressed against Fancy’s in that fucking locker room, where all this shit had started.

Maybe… maybe if he *was* gay—and didn’t end up behind bars for the rest of his life—then maybe he could be gay like Kurt, not gay like everybody else. Except he wasn’t *like* Kurt. That was pretty clear just from the fact that he was on his knees sucking some stranger’s dick on auto-pilot ‘cause he’d done it enough times in his life that he could do it in his sleep. In fact, Dave had actually woken up a few times in his life with a dick being shoved into his mouth.

But maybe he and Kurt could be… friends. Maybe Kurt would let him hang out with him so he wouldn’t have to be *gay* all alone. Maybe he could watch when Kurt found a boyfriend—a good boyfriend who was worthy of him—and see how they acted around each other. Because Kurt *would* find a boyfriend like himself, not some sick fucker. And if he did stumble into any bastards along the way… well, Dave knew how to hide a body. The streets had taught him that, for sure.

Then maybe, someday when Kurt knew—and when they were way, way, way closer than they were now—he could ask him how people dealt with the *pain* when someone pressed themselves into you. Not the physical pain, but the pain of knowing that you were there for them to use. Their warm body. Was it really worth it? Could you really care about someone enough that you would let them do that to you and be *happy* about it?

Dave’s thoughts were cut off abruptly as the guard suddenly thrust deep into his mouth, causing him to gag when the tip of his cock slapped against the back of his throat. Dave turned his eyes up to glare. Real polite, asshole. A little warning next time? Damn bastard.

Of course, all this daydreaming fantasy shit depended on Kurt actually wanting him as a friend after he got to know him a little better. Would Fancy even want him around, with all his romantic notions of the world? Plenty of families had quickly realized he wasn’t for them when the first few perfect days were destroyed by his paranoia, by his nightmares, by his violent reactions to being touched. Kurt saw the world through rose-tinted glasses, but there weren’t enough colored shades in the world to make what Dave was doing now look decent.

Which was why Kurt could never know. Let him keep whatever sympathetic notions he had of poor, sad, abused Dave as long as long as it meant that Dave wouldn’t have to be alone. Gay and alone. Kurt never needed to know that he had sold his ass for a bottle of whiskey just to blur the pain or that he had let his Pops do whatever he wanted for years just because he loved him. He never needed to know that Dave had gotten syphilis at twelve when he was turning five or six tricks a night and had only caught it in time by sheer luck when one of the shelters had been doing free testings. Just let him believe that it was all someone else’s fault, that Dave had never had any choice at all, ever. It was a lie, but it was better than him knowing what a cowardly whore Dave really was. Because cowardly whores did *not* get sort-of-happily ever afters.

It was easy to feel pity for the Abused Child. It was another thing entirely to know Dave Karofsky. The fairy tale always ended badly when the fairy godparents realized that he was no Cinderella and chucked him out in exchange for a younger, less problematic model. That was why he’d worked so hard to make sure the Adams’ never knew. But fairy godfaggot Kurt had already met the Disney Princess Gone Wild and now it was Dave’s job to make sure he never realized that the glass slipper had never fit.Seriously, where the hell had all these fairy tale metaphors come from? He really, really, really needed to stop thinking about fairies. And princesses. And Kurt Hummels.

The guard shoved deeper into his mouth with a groan and Dave rolled his eyes, sucking hard at the cock in his mouth. For fuck’s sake, when was this bastard going to *finish*? Blow jobs--not just demeaning and disgusting, but also boring as hell.

Apparently God—or his fairy godwhoever—was listening because the guard’s body suddenly tensed and he pulled himself out of Dave’s mouth, using the boy’s hair as leverage as he tipped his face to the side, yanking the condom off his dick.

Oh, right. The cumming thing. Fabulous.

Dave clenched his lips and closed his eyes, grimacing a little as he felt something warm and sticky running down his forehead and down to the tip of his nose. He reached up and stopped it before it made it to his lips, glaring up at the guard. Hopefully the fucker was happy now. Screw his Pops for—

“D-Dave?”

Dave tensed all over, eyes widening. No, no, no, it *couldn’t* be… Oh God...

Who knew that slow motion actually existed in the real world? Why had they never mentioned this in his science books? Maybe it was still just a theory but, if so, Dave had definitely proven it true, because the world had definitely slowed down. It seemed to take hours to turn around, watching as Kurt’s disbelieving eyes went from him, up to the guard, and then back again. It seemed to take an eternity for that horrified look to grow on Fancy’s beautiful face. Everything was just… so… slow. Maybe it was his fairy godmother’s doing. Or, more likely, his fairy Satan. Ha. Fairy Satan. That would definitely explain the getting tossed out of Heaven thing.

“Dave?” Kurt’s voice was high and strained as he leaned heavily against the conference room door, looking like he was about to pass out. “What… what is going on?!”

Dave blinked rapidly, not liking the way his eyes were watering as he stumbled toward his feet, almost toppling over in his haste to reach Kurt and… and what? Convince him that he’d been on his knees for some other, less sick and deranged reason? Maybe he could tell him he was a Muslim. They prayed, like, a million times a day, right? Or that he’d been pruning the bushes—okay, whoa. That was just a bad joke waiting to happen.

Dave choked back a sob as he reached toward Kurt and the other boy took a step back, eyes wide.

Why, why, *why* did everything that seemed like maybe it could be good in his life seem to collapse? Why couldn’t he catch a break, just once?”

“Dave… what were you doing?!” The look on Kurt’s face was like a shank to the throat.

So much for fairy tales.


	13. Brokeback Bail

“Dad, will you please just sit down?” Kurt asked as he rubbed his eyes tiredly, watching his father continue to pace furiously up and down the small room.

Burt came to an abrupt halt, angling his body toward Kurt, a frustrated look on his face as he gestured toward the sheet of one-way glass that took up an entire wall, behind which Dr. Batty, Dave, and a slew of guards and officers were having a rather heated debate. Or the guards, cops, and Dr. Batty were having a heated debate, anyway. Dave was just sort of sitting there, slumped down in the orange plastic chair, his eyes dull and expressionless as he stared at the white plaster of the walls like it held all the answers to the universe. Or looked like ice cream. He was a bit of a Neanderthal, after all.

Burt clenched his fists. “I just want to know what they are saying!”

“Well, I’m sure they’ll let us know in a few minutes,” Kurt replied absently, wishing his father would just let it go. The man had been demanding answers for the past hour, answers that Kurt was really not up to giving at the moment. God, the way Dave had looked when Kurt had walked in on… on…

Kurt swallowed down the enormous lump growing in his throat. He couldn’t even think the words for what had been happening in that room--and Dave had lived it. Didn’t that disgusting guard realize he had a mother?! That he had been birthed onto this planet by an act of love?!

Kurt jumped a little when his Dad plopped down in the chair next to him, a disgruntled look on his face as he stared through the glass. “What *happened*, Kurt?!” He wrapped an arm around his son’s slim shoulders, pulling him close, lowering his voice as if sharing a secret. “You know that you can tell me if he did something to you, Kurt. You can trust me. I will *always* be there for you. You know that, right?”

Kurt blinked away the tears that welled up at the sound of his father’s voice, edged with rough emotion. He couldn't even imagine how you could go through life without that support.

“I know, Dad,” he said quietly, leaning his head against his dad’s firm chest. There was no place he felt safer than in his father’s arms. It was the one thing in the world he could always depend on, and it was what had kept him alive when his mother had passed on. He honestly didn’t know how Dave could stand to exist without it.

What would it be like to be all alone in the world? No parents to depend on, no father to support you. No one to cheer at your games or applaud at your shows. It just seemed wrong. Dads should be there to love and protect you, not to hurt you.

“Please, Kurt… talk to me.”

Kurt winced at the pain in his dad’s voice and leaned harder into his chest, relishing the feeling of those strong, calloused hands holding him tight. What would it be like to fear those hands? Talk about a sad life.

“I’m fine, Dad,” Kurt said quietly. “It was Dave, not me.”

Burt’s face tightened. “Did that boy do something else to you?”

Kurt leaned away, shaking his head emphatically. “No, no! Dad… the guard, well, he attacked Dave while I was talking to Dr. Batty. I… really don’t want to talk about it.” He made a choked sound, a dry sob escaping his throat. He needed to get a hold of himself. Dave wasn’t crying, why should he? “I... I can’t talk about it.”

“Okay, okay,” Burt said soothingly, squeezing Kurt’s shoulders. “It’s all right. I just wish I knew what was going on...”

“Mr. Hummel?”

Kurt’s dad stood immediately, one hand still resting comfortingly on his son’s shoulder, as the door of the interrogation room swung open and Dr. Batty walked out, followed closely by a lanky man in a suit almost twice the tiny doctor’s height.

“Oh, thank God. Is somebody actually going to tell me what the hell is going on here? I’ve been sitting in that damn room for over three hours!”

The skinny man in the suit frowned at Burt’s display, adjusting his wire rimmed glasses nervously. His face was twisted in a sour way, like he had just smelled something nasty. Kurt instantly disliked him, and not just because of the disgusted looks he'd seen him shooting Dave. “We just came to inform you that you can take your son home now.”

Kurt’s mouth dropped open, a warm feeling flooding through his chest. They were sending him home?! He was going home?! Home to his moisturizers and bow-tie collection and glittering hair products? This was fabulous! But… wait…

“Hey, what about Dave?” Kurt questioned, ignoring the odd look his dad was shooting him as he purposely stepped into Mr. Sour Face’s personal space.

The man sniffed in a superior way, pointedly taking a step back. “At Dr. Batterhorn’s insistence we contacted the judge at home and it has been agreed that both you and Mr. Karofsky are to be released early due to the, erm, extenuating circumstances.”

Kurt clapped his hands over his chest, an almost euphoric feeling washing over him. “R-really? We get to go home? We both can go home?!”

Dr. Batty gave him a tight smile, despite the fact that he was obviously strung tighter than a corset. “Yes, Kurt. After today’s… incident, child protective services is going to be doing a *very* thorough investigation of this facility and I managed to persuade the judge that neither you nor Mr. Karofsky need to be here. There will still be a hearing on Monday regarding the other boy—Noah, is it?—and to schedule a date for your actual trial. But for now you are free to go home with your father. Mr. Karofsky will be released to his social worker.” He nodded in the general direction of the scowling woman behind him. Kurt glared coldly at her, which she returned in kind, a cruel smile growing on her face. She kind of reminded him of Coach Sylvester.

Kurt’s dad stepped forward, shaking his head a little disbelievingly. “Wait… so after all this, that boy gets attacked and suddenly he and my son are free to go? But when my son was the one being attacked, that was just fine and dandy? What the hell is going on here?!”

Kurt shook his head in frustration. Talk about looking a gift horse in the mouth.

“Weeeell,” Dr. Batty said, drawing out the word as he studied Dave, who was very obviously doing his best to make his oversized ass look as small as possible. Not that he was having much success, the metaphorical elephant in the corner of the room dressed in the old jacket Kurt had insisted they give him as they awaited the arrival of all ‘parties of guardianship’ when the bigger boy had begun to shiver. “The assault on Mr. Karofsky was, well—”

“Nothing you need to worry about!” the man in the suit cut in, his nasally voice coming out too loud in the tiny room. “It was a one time incident—” Dave made a rude sound at that, causing the man to glare hatefully at him. “—and it will absolutely be taken care of. Now, why don’t you and your... lovely son... go on home?” His smile was almost disgustingly sweet. “And you, ma’am, can take *that* boy,” his face turned into a furious glare, “and *go.* I think that is the best course of action for all involved.”

Dr. Batty scowled. “Don’t think you’ll be getting away with this, Ethan, you sniveling wad of warts! There *will* be an investigation on this facility!”

The man returned Dr. Batty’s scowl in full, his brow twitching a little as he turned his angry gaze back on Dave, who looked like he would give his right hand to just disappear. “This has nothing to do with *you*, Batterhorn. You are on the wrong side of the looney bin’s doors, in my not-so-humble opinion, and I am pretty sure the welfare board agrees with me!”

The doctor let out a cold laugh. “That doesn’t surprise me. You’re quite the birds of a feather, after all! Considering that you taught every one of the imbeciles on that board the art of starving a child so subtly that no one notices it until they pass out in gym. And *then* how to blame it on anorexia nervosa so that you can keep your support checks flowing!”

“Okay,” Dave’s social worker cut in, her voice impatient. “Believe it or not, I have things to do, people to see, blah blah blah. So how about you gentlemen put it back in your pants so that I can get on the road?” She moved in Dave’s direction, tossing her oversized purse into his arms and gesturing for him to follow her.

Kurt’s eyes narrowed at the defeated look on Dave’s face as he hunched his shoulders a little more and tossed the bag over his arm, his big form hovering over her as they headed toward the door.

There was a light sensation of fingertips against his arm as Dave passed by him and Kurt's breath caught. Dave's face immediately went red and he pulled his fingers away, running them nervously across his bandana as he did his best to avoid Kurt's gaze. Somehow Kurt didn't think the boy had actually meant to do that.

"Come on, you oaf. I don't have all day."

The social worker/bitch hybrid yanked the door open and Kurt started. He couldn’t let her take Dave. She obviously didn’t give a damn about the boy, and he’d promised Dave that he would be there for him. Somehow he didn’t think many people bothered to keep their promises to Dave.

“I don’t know who you think you are, lady,” Kurt said suddenly, placing one hand on his cocked hip as he went for full-out sassy, shaking a finger in the air. Two could play the Little Miss Bitch game. “But there is no way that Dave is going with *you*.”

Burt’s eyes widened, his mouth forming a little ‘o’ as he stared at his son in confusion. “Kurt, what are you talking about? That’s his social worker.”

Kurt snuck a glance at Dave, offering up an encouraging smile that turned to a frown as Dave avoided his eyes entirely. Obviously he would be getting no help on that front. Heaven forbid Dave do anything for his own damn good. “Dad,” Kurt said as he crossed his arms over his chest, pouting a little just for the hell of it. “Dave has done nothing but keep an eye out for me since I got here—” and also jerk off against me, Kurt’s treacherous brain added. He pushed the thought away, hiding his grimace. “The least I can do is watch out for him out there. That woman has done *nothing* with his best interest in mind since I’ve met her and I *seriously* doubt she is about to start now. I want Dave to come home with us.”

“Are you nuts?” Burt exploded, the words causing Dave to physically wince and take a step back, as if Burt was going to jump him from half a room away with ten cops standing around. But then there had been plenty of guards around when Dave's father had attacked him, so maybe the boy had a reason to worry.

“Dad, will you calm down?!” Kurt hissed, clenching his fists as he moved toward the other boy, pretending not to notice when Dave flinched away from Kurt's fingers against his hunched shoulder. "You're overreacting!"

“Overreacting? Finn is hardly out of the hospital a day and you wanna bring home his attacker? Tell me how that’s sane, Kurt!”

“He’s right,” Dave spoke up suddenly, cutting off the slashing rebuttal Kurt had planned for his dad involving a detailed recital of the ways *Burt* had acted when he was a hormonal teen boy full of high school crazy. 

“He’s r-" Dave coughed suddenly, hacking for a moment before he continued, voice rough. "He's right. That’s crazy, Fancy.”

Crazy? What was crazy was how hoarse and low Dave’s voice was. Talk about the ultimate reminder of everything Kurt didn’t want to remember about that afternoon. It didn't take much imagination to figure out just what had given Dave’s normally smooth voice that raspy edge. Kurt scowled as Dave continued, obviously unaware that he sounded like the spokesperson for a campaign against deep throating.

“I’ll be fine, princess. I can take care of myself.”

A shiver of annoyance ran through Kurt as images he'd just as soon forget assaulted his brain. “You mean like you took care of yourself with that guard today?”

Dave looked at him sharply, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed, wincing a little as he did so. It wasn't very often that Kurt would wish strep on a person--especially considering how high he regarded one's singing skills--but as Dave's fingers brushed gently against his throat, a pained look on his face, Kurt really, really wished that some cough syrup and a hot water bottle were all that would be needed to solve the problem.

“I was fine, okay?” Dave said, voice defensive even through that raw hoarseness.

“On your knees in front of a complete stranger isn’t what I would call ‘fine,’ David,” Kurt said, fully aware that the superior tone of his voice was probably pissing Dave off. And calling him 'David' probably wasn't helping. But it was the honest to God truth! Being raped was not ‘fine’ by any means, no matter how many times it happened, and Dave needed to get that through his thick skull and stop blaming himself for there being so many damn perverts in the world.

Burt made a confused sound, reaching up to yank off his baseball cap and moving it nervously in his hands. “Wait... what? On his…" Burt's eyes widened at he looked over at Dave. "Oh my God, please, *please* tell me that we’re not talking about the kind of stuff that went down in that tent.” He crushed his cap in his hands. “…Oh hell, is he a Heath Ledger? You were sharing a tent with a *Heath Ledger?!* What have I told you about that, Kurt?!” He moved suddenly toward scrawny suit man, looking furious. "You put my son in a tent with Heath Ledger?!"

Dr. Batty furrowed his brow, looking confused, and the man in the suit took a step back, an offended look on his face. “Excuse me?”

Kurt stepped between them before his dad could answer, waving away the words. “Nothing. It's nothing. Let’s just say that he watched Brokeback Mountain a few too many times. You *really* don’t want to know.” He shot an irritated look at his Dad. “We were in a cell, not a tent, Dad. And nothing went down, okay?!”

“Oh, really?” Burt shot a distrustful glare at Dave and Kurt let out a frustrated sigh, throwing up his hands in defeat. “What about you, Karofsky? Was anything going down in *your* tent?”

Dave made an almost frightened sound as Burt stared at him with narrowed eyes, his big hands yanking his bandana off and rolling it around for a moment before tying it back on again in an obviously well-practiced nervous gesture. Strangely enough, it sort of reminded Kurt of how his dad would fiddle with his cap when uncomfortable. They might actually get along if they could ever get over the whole bullying thing. And if Kurt's dad could ever get the image of them rolling around wearing nothing but cowboy hats and spurs out of his head.

“Whoa, there was no Brokeback anything going on, okay? I’ve never even been in a tent! Or seen that movie! No brokebacking, none at all, I swear, Mr. Hummel!” He rubbed nervously at his face with his shoulder, looking exhausted, and it took all the discipline drawn from years of practicing the catwalk in stiletto heels for Kurt not to just move across the room and hug the crap out of the big lug.

Aw, what the hell? Screw his discipline. It would only hurt the boy’s pride and Dave’s sense of that was twisted enough that it didn’t even really matter when you got down to it.

Kurt moved toward the other boy, lifting himself up on his toes so that he could get a good grip around that big neck, his long, thin arms a striking contrast to Dave’s hard biceps. Huh. The pretty boy had ended up protecting the bad boy. Funny how that worked.

He buried his face in the other boy’s chest, taking in the smell of sweat and toothpaste and some other pungent odor that Kurt couldn’t—and didn’t want to—define.

“Kurt, wha’ are ya doin’?” Dave asked, his voice slightly muffled as Kurt wrapped his arms more tightly around the boy’s neck, burying Dave's face in the shoulder of his sweater. “You’re kinda chokin’ me.”

“Kurt just what is going *on* here?” Burt’s voice had gone past confusion into pure disbelief and Kurt reluctantly pulled away from Dave, turning to look at his father once more.

“Dad, come here for a sec,” he said quietly, moving back away from the middle of the room where they were gathered and gesturing for the older man to follow. Kurt led his father further off to the side, lowering his voice as he glanced at Dave out of the corner of his eyes. The boy was staring at them, kind of like a deer in the headlights, obviously worried but clueless as to what he should do. It might have been amusing had there not been a crusty white substance dried across his cheek, bright against the purplish color of his bruised skin and the dark stubble on his chin.

Burt bent down a little so that their foreheads were almost touching, his face serious. “Kurt, could you please fill me in here?” he asked quietly, sneaking peeks back over at the little gathering of government employees who were now arguing rather vigorously over whether or not the plastic blinds should be removed from the break rooms.

Kurt smoothed his fingers nervously across his bangs. “Look, Dad… Dave… well… This is all a lot more complicated than you know.” He gave a short laugh. “Hell, I didn’t know anyone that simple minded could *be* so complicated. Dave has been through a lot.” He held up a hand before his father could protest. “Not that it makes everything okay. But I promised him that I would help him and I can’t renege on that now.”

Burt took a steadying breath as he turned to look at Dave again, little wrinkles appearing on his brow as he studied the boy’s obviously defeated form. “Kurt… I am sorry that things have been… bad for Karofsky.” He made a face. “But a lot of people in this world have it bad. Hell, my life wasn’t perfect. My dad tried his best to show he loved us, but not in a way that I really understood until I was *well* beyond my childhood. And I didn’t turn out so bad, did I? I mean, maybe I’m not perfect, but I’m no bully.”

“Dad,” Kurt said quietly, “please. Just for one night?”

“Kurt, I really don’t know—”

“Do you trust me?”

Burt jerked his eyes away from Dave, frowning down at his son’s worried face. “Of course I trust you, Kurt. I just don’t know that I trust *him.*”

Kurt gave him a tight smile. “Well, *I* trust him and you trust me, so you sort of trust him by proxy, right?”

Burt let out an exasperated sigh, shaking his head. “Dang, Kurt… All right.” He shook his head again, reaching out to squeeze Kurt’s arm. “Fine. We’ll talk to that social worker of his—but just for one night, okay?”

Kurt reached out suddenly, wrapping his arms around his dad and giving him a tight hug, happiness flooding through him. “Thanks, Dad. You won’t regret it.”

* * *

You are seriously going to regret this!”

Kurt’s mouth twisted up in disgust as the woman’s voice echoed after them, and even Burt was shaking his head in disbelief.

“That social worker of yours is quite a piece of work,” his dad said, slowing down so that Dave, who was walking three paces behind him and Kurt, could catch up. 

The boy didn’t bother to verbalize an answer, just giving a little half-shrug, brown eyes locked on his ratty sneakers.

Kurt was sure they looked like quite the trio, walking outside in the dark parking lot with Dave dressed in the nasty jacket they’d pulled out of a janitor’s closet for him and his bandana, pants a shocking orange color. And Burt straight out of a John Mellencamp video. Little pink houses and ugly ass jeans. Kurt would bet his best Prada pumps that anyone watching would think Dave was the Hummel and that Kurt, in his tailored pants and knee length purple sweater, was the odd one out.

He paused as they reached his dad’s car, reaching out to give the other boy’s arm a comforting squeeze. Once again Dave flinched away and Kurt immediately released his hold, an apologetic look on his face as he walked around the car to climb in the front seat.

“Well,” Burt said, when Dave just stood there, the cold wind whirling around them. “ You gonna get in, son?” Dave didn't respond and Burt frowned. “David?”

Dave started, blinking rapidly as if he had just realized Burt was there, and Kurt bit his lip worriedly, wondering if the boy had been more affected by the horror of that afternoon than he had realized.

“I… Yes, sir.” His voice was barely a whisper as he pulled open the door to the backseat and began to climb in, movements painfully slow. The enormous boy had to duck a little to make it inside and his head almost brushed the roof once he was settled in the back. As the last car door slammed shut a foul smell filled the car and Kurt grimaced, wondering just what was on that disgusting coat they’d found for Dave to wear. Maybe some of Finn’s hoodies would fit him, or one of his dad’s old coats.

Burt turned the key and put the car into gear and they jerked forward suddenly, causing Burt to curse under his breath, fingers tightening on the steering wheel as he exhaled slowly. Kurt saved himself from hitting the console with a hand against the dash but Dave wasn't so lucky, his already bruised face smacking into the back of Burt's seat. Seriously, that boy had no luck.

Burt murmured an apology, not really sounding like he meant it, and they started again, heading for the exit.

Kurt frowned. Obviously his father was not 100% down with Kurt’s Save the Dave mission. Not that Kurt could really blame him. Dave *had* beaten his step-son half to death and landed his son in jail. Plus he had no idea the kinds of things Dave had been facing. Kurt was pretty sure that if his dad had any idea the sort of things Dave had been through, he'd cut him a lot more slack. But he was also fairly sure that Dave would throw a fit if he told him, so... uncomfortable car moments, it was.

The silence reverberating through the car as Burt idled to a stop was thick enough to gag on and Kurt couldn’t help but shift uncomfortably in his seat as he glanced at his father from the corner of his eye, wanting to break the tension but fearing that anything he said would just send it crumbling down on his head. What to say when riding in a car with your father and the closeted bully who had threatened your life on multiple occasions. Unfortunately Ms. Manners had not addressed this one.

Apparently Burt was also feeling the tension—as if it was possible not to—because as the light flickered to yellow he idled the car to a stop, he spoke, his voice careful. “So, David… I think there are a few things we need to clear up before we get home. Just to, ya know, get them out there.”

Kurt glanced at Dave in the rearview mirror, frowning as the boy slumped down even further, his eyes flickering around the car like maybe he was looking for an escape route or something.

“Obviously it is difficult for me to… trust you, considering all the, ah, stuff that’s gone down lately.” There was a long moment of silence then Burt cleared his throat, obviously uncomfortable. “Well? Do you have anything to say for yourself?”

There was a long pause before Dave answered, his voice so quiet it could hardly be heard over the whoosh of the heater. “No, sir.”

Kurt winced as his father tensed, grip tightening on the steering wheel in obvious frustration. “Not even an ‘I’m sorry’?”

“No, sir.”

Burt raised an eyebrow, shaking his head. “So you don’t even feel you owe me that?”

“Will sorry make it better, sir?”

A very *un*amused laugh came from Burt and Kurt grimaced and gripped the door handle as his father yanked the car into another lane, sending Dave slamming into the side this time. This was not going well.

“You really are a mouthy boy, aren’t you, Karofsky?”

Dave didn’t answer, just sliding down even further in his seat until his ass was inches from being in the floorboard. 

Kurt let out an irritated sigh. “Dad, just leave him alone, okay? He’s not trying to be mouthy, he’s just as dense as hell and not very good at answering questions.”

“I’m not dense,” Dave protested weakly, frowning when both Kurt and Burt ignored him.

"Dad, he doesn't mean anything by it."

Burt shot the boy one last irritated look in the rearview mirror then shook his head, scowling. “Yeah, okay, fine. But he is not staying anywhere *near* your room. And there will be no talk of *tents* in my house. You hear me, Karofsky? There will be no camping out under my roof.”

"Yes, Mr. Hummel."

"Good. 'Cause this ain't the Eagle Scouts."

Kurt stifled a groan. It was going to be a very long night.


	14. Just a Dream

Dave took a steadying breath as Burt pulled the car into the garage. He could handle this. He’d be fine. Kurt wouldn’t let his dad hurt him. Right? Well… not too bad, at least. It was obvious that Fancy had his old man totally whipped and, for God knew what reason, the princess had suddenly decided that he was firmly on Dave’s side, no holds barred.

Dave wasn't sure what had stirred the other boy’s sudden maternal instincts. When he had humiliated him in public, making him kiss his boots? When he had held him down on the bunk and called him a slut? When Kurt had walked into the room only to be greeted by the lovely sight of cum dripping down Dave’s face, some nameless man’s dick slapping against his cheek? It was nuts.

But nuts or not, Kurt had officially turned into a breast, all coos and comfort. Quite the change from when he had first walked in on Dave's little tryst. He had hardly recognized the other boy as he rushed in with fury in his eyes, his arms flailing about in the air as he launched himself onto the guard, screeching like a banshee, his manicured nails clawing at the man's shirt. The fucker hadn’t known what to do. Apparently the idea that you don’t hit girls was well ingrained in his redneck skull, because he hadn’t even tried to fight the princess off. 

The next thing Dave knew he was wrapped up in an old jacket that Kurt had *insisted* they give him, despite the fact that his shaking hands were more from the shock of seeing Kurt swoop in like a transvestite superhero than the cold, as he pretended to sip hot chocolate so that Fancy would stop whining about how it would make him feel better. 'Pretending' being the key word since Dave was fairly certain that anything going in his stomach at that moment was destined to come right back up.

They’d stood around for two hours like that, with Kurt all up in his space, cooing and petting his hair like he was some sort of dog. Normally Dave would have pulled away in disgust and scheduled Kurt a little trip to the porcelain god for treating him like a sad puppy, but after what Kurt had seen, well, he’d take whatever hint of affection he could get. He had better enjoy it while he could because once Ladyface got a moment to really think about what he’d seen, he’d be damned lucky if the boy would let him be his footstool, much less his pet. And he sure as hell wouldn’t be interested in being anything else.

Hey, it was better than nothing, and nothing is all he’d ever had, so he might as well just go with it. He could probably manage the tongue bit. Now he'd just have to figure out how to wag his tail.

“Kurt, why don’t you leave us alone for a few?” Burt said, turning to his son. Dave flinched at the words. He really, really didn’t want to be alone with Burt Hummel. The man was no pansy, except maybe where his son was concerned. In fact, he sort of reminded Dave of his Pops, except his Pops didn't believe in taking it easy on a person just because they were the fruit of your loins. But they both had that kind of rough charm about them, and Dave would be willing to bet that Burt wasn’t afraid to get rough if it was needed.

Going home with strange men never turned out well. Not that Burt was really a strange man in the truest sense of the word, but he definitely had more than a few reasons to dislike Dave. And a few was all he needed. Kurt no doubt had the best of intentions, but he couldn’t be there every second and there was no promise that his old man would play by the rules once he was out of sight. Hence the giant lump in Dave’s stomach. But hey, it might be better to just get it over with, anyway. He'd have to face the music sometime.

Kurt studied Dave for a moment, a questioning look on his face, then seem to come to some decision, giving a sharp nod. Dave swallowed nervously as the other boy opened the car door and climbed out, flicking his wrist in a really gayish way as he smiled down at them.

“Okay. I’ll go make us something to eat, if Carole hasn’t already put something together." Another motherly smile. "You look hungry, David.”

Hungry. Right. Yeah, he was hungry. He was *always* hungry. But the look on Burt’s face just kind of made him wanna puke, so…

“Thanks, Kurt,” he mumbled, doing his best to avoid his gaze, focusing hard on his scratched knuckles as the smaller boy wiggled his fingers in farewell and headed into the house.

There was a shuffling sound as Burt twisted around in his seat, eyes serious as he studied Dave, his mouth in a tight line.

Dave hid a shiver, pulling the dirty coat more tightly around him like it was some kind of armor. It smelled pretty foul, but Dave actually liked that—smelling like crap did a lot to keep people away. And that was where Dave tended to like people: Far, far away from his body.

“David, I just want to make it very, very clear that *any* kind of misbehavior will *not* be tolerated in my home. This is a zero tolerance household and I expect you to be respectful and polite while under my roof.”

Dave’s heart sped up. He hated this part, where they laid out the rules. They always seemed so obvious, as clear as fucking crystal, but in the end, he always fucked it up. It was pretty much impossible not to. There were *always* hidden layers. 

Burt expected him to be respectful and polite. But what, *precisely*, did that mean? Should he solemnly swear that he would and risk being called a cheeky bastard? Should he just nod and hope Burt didn't take his silence for a lie? There was no right answer to these questions, because he wasn't really expected to live up to his word. The judgements had already been made. So Dave just stayed silent, staring down at his hands.

“David? Do you understand me?”

“Yes, sir,” Dave said miserably, squeezing his eyes shut as Burt reached out and used his hand to tilt his face upwatd. “I understand, Mr. Hummel.” God, his muscles were so tense they hurt. He was doing his best to hide behind his eyelids, holding his breath as he waited, on edge at the thought of what that hand on his chin might do next. He had learned at a young age that meeting their eyes never did you any good. It mostly just got you punched in the face for being a disrespectful brat.

“Dave? Look at me.”

The boy forced his lungs to inhale, taking in a steadying breath as he inched his eyes open just enough to see the slimmest sliver of Burt in front of him. “Yes, sir.”

Burt’s brow furrowed and he released Dave’s face abruptly, looking a little perturbed. “All right,” he said slowly, and Dave squeezed his eyes shut again. “Well. As long as you understand.”

“I do,” Dave muttered, his fingertips digging into his own arms as he stared into the darkness of his eyelids, wondering what Burt’s face looked like but not enough to actually open his eyes and see. “I won’t give you any reason to be mad, sir. I promise, sir.”

Burt made a sound of acknowledgement, then there was a moment of rustling and the engine shut off. Dave shivered as a door opened and the cold of the garage began to seep into the car. 

“Well, come on in, then. It’s freezing out here.”

* * *

Mrs. Hudson looked really good. Her short visit to the juvie center aside, it had been a long time since he had seen her, and she looked happier than he remembered. He hoped she was happy. That year of Pop Tart lunches was one of his fondest memories, and he and Finn hadn’t even really been friends. Such a nice lady. He was really sorry he had hurt her son.

Carole looked up from the pot she was stirring, the smile slipping from her face as her eyes settled on Dave.

He dropped his gaze, blushing. She’d given him food and he’d strangled her son. He shouldn’t be here. This wasn’t right.

There was a heavy moment of silence then her voice rang out, and Dave looked up, greeted by a pleasant, if somewhat forced, smile. “Dave Karofsky… it has been a long time, young man. Kurt says that you’re staying the night?” Her voice was careful, but friendly, and a wave of guilt rushed through Dave. She was such a nice lady. Just looking at her kind of made him hope that Burt’s fists found his face before the night was out. He didn’t deserve any less.

“Hi, Mrs. Hudson,” he said. His voice came out as a whisper, but at least then he could be sure that he wasn’t being too loud. Yet another survival skill that he had picked up in foster care—noisy prey attracts the predators. A quiet boy could be ignored. Well, as much as you could ignore a kid the size of a gladiator standing in your kitchen. “You look really nice.”

And she did, though she was just dressed in a sweatshirt and jeans. But something about her smile just lit up her face, making her more beautiful than any of those doped-up looking models could hope to be.

“Um, thank you, Dave.” She gestured toward the kitchen table where Kurt was mixing some sort of dark green, limp looking salad. “Would you like to sit down and have something to drink? Dinner should be finished in just a few minutes.”

Dave lowered his head, nodding slowly, then carefully sat down in one of the chairs while Burt opened the fridge, ducking down to pull out a beer, popping the top off and taking a sip. Dave’s eyes widened for a moment then he looked quickly away, staring hard down at the table. Just what he needed—booze, added to an already terrifying equation.

“What would you like, Dave? We have Coke, every kind of Diet drink you can imagine, Dr. Pepper, and some kind of fizzy water that sort of tastes like grapefruit.” Burt raised an eyebrow in his direction and Dave nervously ran his tongue across his lips. His throat hurt like hell and something to drink would be nice, but somehow he didn’t think that depleting Burt’s soda stash would put him on the man’s good side and, God help him, he definitely wanted to be on the man’s good side if he was going to sleep under his roof. What would the polite, respectful thing to drink be?

“Um, water is good. I mean, regular water from the faucet, not the fizzy water stuff.”

Burt shut the refrigerator with a shrug and opened a cabinet, pulling out a glass and moving around Carole to fill it up at the sink. He set it down in front of Dave and the boy did his best to simultaneously smile in thanks and avoid the man’s eyes, carefully lifting the glass to his lips and sipping at the cool water.

God, that tasted glorious, washing away the last taints of sex that lingered on his tongue. His throat still hurt like a bitch, but at least it wasn’t so dry anymore. Without thinking, Dave chugged the glass, setting it aside with a little sigh then blushing a little when he saw the look on Burt's face. He dropped his eyes, embarrassed. It probably wasn't considered polite company to chug your water like a keg. “Sorry,” he muttered, reaching out to play with the edge of the glass, running his finger along the rim.

Burt just shrugged again and raised his beer in a little salute before taking a sip, then set it down on the table. Dave pointedly didn't look at it. Maybe if he pretended it wasn't there, Burt would forget about it.

“So, what’s for dinner, beautiful?” the man asked, tugging at the back of her hair in a playful way.

Carole laughed and spun around, planting a little kiss on his lips. “Spaghetti and meat sauce. I would have planned something a little more extravagant if I’d know we were having guests, but…” She smiled at Dave, almost apologetically, and he took a leap of faith that Burt wouldn’t beat him up for being too nice to his woman, daring to smile back at her.

“Spaghetti sounds awesome, Mrs. Hudson.”

A loud banging noise came from what Dave guessed was the living room and Finn’s voice rose. “Kurt! You’re back! Hey, mom is dinner ready—whoa!” Finn skidded to an abrupt halt just inside the kitchen door, his eyes wide as he took in Dave hunched over the table. “Oh,” he said as he looked from Dave back to Kurt and then to Dave again. “This is… interesting. Someone going to fill me in on why Karofsky is in our kitchen?” He reached up to touch the bruises that still mottled his neck and Dave dropped his eyes, wishing that the floor would just open up and swallow him.

“Dave is staying for dinner, Finn,” Carole said briskly, smiling placatingly at her son as she took the pan of noodles off the burner.

“And for the night,” Burt added, his voice a little gruff, probably from the effort of having to force down the urge to beat the living shit out of Dave. Not that he blamed the man. Dave really wasn’t looking forward to what might happen if Burt got a chance at him alone. Or maybe ‘when’ was a better word. This *was* the man’s house and he was definitely the type who worked with his hands. Dave had a feeling that he was going to find himself cornered in a wood shop or an attic or maybe back out in the garage once Kurt and Carole had gone to bed. He wondered idly if he’d bring Finn along. The boy was awfully good hearted, but Dave had done him some serious damage and he might want to get a few swings in. Maybe. He really didn't know. Hudson was kind of an anomaly in their group of jock jerks—popular because he was a nice guy, not because he was a badass like Puckerman or a wit so sharp it would cut you like Azimio.

Finn raised an eyebrow, fingers still resting at his throat. “Oh. That’s… oh.”

Dave licked his lips again, nervous. “I’m sorry. About your throat.” His words were still just a whisper, and he forced his voice up a few notches. If there was ever a time to be noisy, it was when apologizing to the Real Kids. “I shouldn’t have attacked you. I… I messed up.”

Finn frowned, glancing over at Kurt. The slender boy raised an eyebrow, gesturing dramatically, and Finn forced a grin. “Um, okay. I guess it’s… okay. I mean, I’m okay. So. Yeah.”

There was a short moment of tension as they all just kind of stood there and stared at each other, then Carole spoke up, the friendly woman ever willing to put on a smile. “Dinner is served, boys!” She picked up the pot, dumping the pasta noodles into a dish. “Finn? Why don’t you set the dining room table while Kurt helps me get this grub ready to go?”

* * *

Dave stared down at the serving dish, half wishing it would just disappear. Who would have thought that taking a scoop of spaghetti could be such a nerve-wracking experience? It was just so hard, the first night at a new place, when you didn’t know what the rules were and you couldn’t ask because the whole point of unwritten rules was that you didn’t talk about them. Carole and Burt didn’t seem to care too much about money, but you never knew. It was always best to try to use as little as possible, at least until you knew whether or not taking an extra roll would be okay'd with a smile or earn you a miserable night shoveling snow in nothing but ripped sweats and socks.

He snuck a glance over at Burt, hoping the man’s expression might give him a hint as to how much he should dish out, then ducked his head once more as the man raised eyebrow in his direction.

“You okay there, Dave?” The question was calm, but curious, and the fact that Burt topped it off with another sip of beer made Dave a little nervous. The man hadn’t even gotten through one whole bottle yet, but Dave knew well that a slow start didn’t necessarily mean a sober night.

Dave chewed nervously on the bottom of his lip as he carefully picked up the spoon. He hated figuring out the limits when it came to new homes, and Burt in particular was really tough to read. Half the time his foster dads would just take the dishes and spoon out however little they wanted him to eat. Despite the small dinner it made for, it put Dave’s nerves at ease. But having to decide for himself… There were just so many variables. He didn’t want to get too little and make them think he wasn’t grateful for the food but he didn’t want to take too much and make Burt think he was being a pig. So many decisions.

Under the stress of Burt’s continued stare, Dave gave in and carefully scooped a small spoonful of pasta onto his plate. Better too little than too much. Getting too little would just offend them. Getting too much could really, truly piss them off. He knew *that* from experience.

Dave risked another look over at Burt, letting out a small sigh of relief when the man didn’t appear to be bothered by what he had taken, then passed the bowl on to Kurt. One bowl down, three more to go. The sauce pan didn't seem quite so daunting now that he had managed the spaghetti dish, and he carefully drizzled the tiniest bit across his spaghetti, ignoring the strange look Kurt was shooting him.

“Dude, is that all you’re gonna eat?” Finn said around a mouthful of pasta, a greasy breadstick clutched in one hand. He was certainly living up to the stereotype of a teenaged boy and his stomach, having piled his plate so full of spaghetti that he’d had to use a second dish for his many breadsticks and salad. But then he was a Real Kid, and everyone knew that Real Kids ate better. There was nothing wrong with that.

“I’m not very hungry,” Dave lied. Actually, he was starving and the scent of the pasta was driving him absolutely crazy. But then he was *always* starving. There was just something about having gone hungry… you never really forgot what it felt like, and anytime your stomach seemed even the slightest bit empty it just sent you into a sort of panic mode. But there was no point in going nuts with the food, even if it turned out Burt really *didn’t* care how much he ate. Not eating made your stomach small and if he ate half of what Finn was shoveling down he’d probably vomit it right back up. Talk about the ultimate waste of good food. Better to try and sneak some food into his napkin and put it in his pockets for later. As Burt turned to talk to Carole, Dave seized the chance to do just that, plucking a breadstick out of the basket and shoving it down into his lap to hide away for later.

It never hurt to have a stash.

“So, Dave,” Burt said, voice forcibly friendly. Dave looked up for an instant then lowered his eyes again, trying to seem as respectful as possible. He didn’t know what Burt Hummel had planned for him, but he would do his best to stay on his good side. The man had the power, after all. All the power. Especially once he’d finished that beer and moved on to the next dozen.

“I am afraid that we don’t actually have a guest room.”

Oh. Well, that was no big deal. Dave could and would sleep just about anywhere. “I can sleep in the garage if you want me to, sir,” he replied absently as he slowly twisted a particularly delicious looking piece of spaghetti onto his fork.

Kurt chose that moment to choke on his bread and Dave winced as Finn pounded on his step-brother’s back.

“I think it’s a little cold in the garage,” Burt said once his son was breathing normally again, a hint of amusement in his voice.”

“S’okay,” Dave replied with a shrug. “Sir. One of the upsides to being fat. I don’t get cold easy. Sir.” The garage wouldn’t be too bad. It was out of the wind and snow and he could always put his socks on his hands and pull his shirt over his head. He’d slept in a garage for almost six months when he was younger, using a tarp to keep the cold away in the winter. The family he’d been placed with had actually had a guest room, but they saved it for guests, so he had gotten to sleep with the cars. Considering that he’d already been in juvie twice, it had actually been a pretty good placement. He hadn’t had to put out, anyway. Sleeping on concrete was the easy life compared to what his Pops had in store for him.

“I wouldn’t say you’re fat, Dave,” Carole said, a strange look on her face that Dave couldn't quite read. “Maybe… big boned. But I really don’t think the garage is an appropriate place for you to sleep.”

Ah. They probably thought he’d try to steal their car. Dave shrugged again. “I’ll sleep wherever you want me to.” Oops. “Ma’am. I meant ma'am.” Couldn’t forget the polite and respectful thing. “I just thought maybe you wouldn’t want me in the house. With your stuff. Not that I would steal nothin’,” he added quickly, shooting a nervous glance at Burt as the man opened his mouth then shut it again, frowning. Burt agreed, Dave was pretty sure of that. He probably wouldn’t say so in front of Fancy, but Dave knew how these things went. It was cool.

“I was thinking more along the lines of the couch in the living room,” Burt said as he took another sip of beer, forcing a smile. 

Dave just shoveled the last of his spaghetti into his mouth, not bothering to argue. Burt would put him where Burt wanted him once the rest of the family had gone to sleep.

Thankfully the conversation moved on and Dave sat silently while the family chatted for awhile about some TV show where people, like, shepherded whale killers or something like that. He wasn't really paying much attention, distracted by the mess of pasta left on Kurt’s plate. He wondered idly if Fancy was on a diet and, if so, whether he could have the rest of his dinner.

“And that’s why I would NEVER buy perfume from the Japanese.” Kurt announced with a shudder. “Those poor, innocent whales!”

Carole nodded her agreement as she stood, smiling down at the table. “So, who’s up for dessert?”

Dave rose suddenly, reaching out to take her plate, smiling in what he hoped was a respectful and polite way. “I can wash the dishes, Mrs. Hudson,” he said softly.

The woman’s already bright smile somehow managed to grow ever brighter as she nodded. “Why, thank you, Dave. Why don’t you clear off those plates and I’ll go get the pies out of the oven?”

Dave nodded, giving Kurt a tight lipped smile when the boy looked at him oddly, his head cocked to the side.

“I never took you for the domestic type,” he said dryly as Dave lifted up the boy’s half filled plate, balancing it carefully on his arm.

Dave shrugged, ducking his head a little. “I'm a foster kid. That’s kind of what we're there for. I mean, it’s just kind of expected, you know, if you’re gonna live for free in someone’s house.”

Kurt frowned at that for some reason and Dave turned his back on him, trailing behind Carole into the kitchen. He waited for a moment, watching until her back was turned, then tugged a paper towel off the roll, carefully spooning the leftovers from the plates into it, a shiver of pleasure running through him as he imagined what it would taste like later. He didn’t mind it cold—it still tasted good to him—and pasta was really filling. He wouldn’t have to go to sleep hungry that night.

“Dave, what are you doing?” Dave jumped at the sound of Carole’s voice beside him. He had been so focused on imagining the rich taste of sauce on his tongue that he hadn’t noticed her stepping up next to him, peeking around his broad shoulders at the makeshift To-Go baggy he had created.

Dave felt the tips of his ears redden as his stomach chose that inopportune moment to growl. Dammit! That was definitely not polite or respectful. He really hoped she didn’t tell Burt. She probably wouldn’t. Would she? She was really nice. Maybe if he just explained…

“I was just, ah, saving this. For later. For… me,” he finished lamely, avoiding Carole’s concerned gaze. “I… I’m sorry. Really sorry,” he said quickly, stumbling over the words. “I should have asked you if you wanted to keep it. I assumed you were gonna wanna throw it out. I shouldn’t have kept it either way. I guess I ruined it if you wanted to keep it. I… I’ll throw it away.” He picked up the little pouch of pasta he had made, doing his best to ignore the disappointment growing in his chest. It didn’t matter. He probably wouldn’t even be here long enough to worry about food. He could hit the McD’s dumpster in the morning.

“Wait,” Carole said, catching his arm. “No, that’s perfectly fine, Dave! But let me get you a container to put it in so that the sauce won’t get all over you.” She reached out and opened up a cabinet, pulling out an empty butter container. “Are you still hungry, Dave? You really didn’t eat much tonight, and as a mother of a teenaged boy myself, I know just how much you guys can scarf down!”

Dave shook his head, a little too vigorously. “No! I’m fine. Fine. You don’t gotta worry about me.” He flashed her his very best smile, hoping that she didn’t notice the broken tooth. “I can take care of myself, Mrs. Hudson, ma’am.”

Carole frowned. “Would you please just call me Carole, Dave? You’re making me feel like an old lady!” She reached out and squeezed his arm. “And you shouldn’t *have* to take care of yourself. You’re sixteen years old—you still have a couple of years to go before you have to start paying taxes, young man!”

“Everything okay in here, Carole?”

Dave started slightly at the sound of Burt’s voice, dropping his eyes, his shoulders drooping as the man entered the kitchen, looking suspiciously between them.

Carole smiled brightly, patting Dave’s shoulder. “It’s fine, Burt. I was just wrapping up these leftovers for Dave to munch on later.” The woman put her hands on her hips, making a comical face in Dave’s direction. “Hon, why don’t you get some dishes out of that cabinet behind you and we’ll go have some pie! Cherry or pecan, big boned boy’s choice!” She nudged Dave with her elbow, chuckling and he floundered for a moment, mouth opening and closing.

“I, um, I don’t… I… I don’t really know,” he finished lamely. “I’ve never had cherry pie. Or pecan. I… I had apple pie once. It was really good. I kinda got in trouble, though, ‘cause I was at a shelter at Thanksgiving and I, uh, ate the whole thing.” He laughed, blushing a little. “I can be kind of a pig. But I guess you know that. I’m pretty sure I ate every Pop Tart in your house when I came over to see Finn.”

“There’s nothing wrong with having an appetite, Dave,” Carole said carelessly. “You’re a growing boy.”

“I don’t wanna be any trouble. I mean, you don’t owe me nothin’. Anything. I kinda owe you…”

Carole reached out, wrapping an arm around Dave’s shoulder, and he ducked his head, hoping silently that this wasn’t pissing Burt off. He wondered idly if the man had come in the kitchen to get another beer.

“Dave, where I come from, kindness doesn’t come at a price and you don’t owe me anything.” She patted his arm again, something that was starting to almost feel like a familiar gesture, and smiled. “Now come on, grab those dishes, and let’s get our dessert on! You can try the cherry and the pecan and we’ll see which you like best, okay? You too, sweetie,” she said, laying a finger against Burt’s chest as she passed by him on her way to the dining room. “Well? Come on, boys!”

Burt ducked his head in acknowledgement. “We’ll be right there, love,” he said with a smile.

“She’s really nice,” Dave said quietly once the woman was out of the kitchen, sneaking a quick look at Burt before dropping his eyes back down to the plates in his hands.

“I’m a lucky man,” Burt said simply, running a palm across his balding scalp. He frowned suddenly, eyes crinkling up a little at the edges. “Hey, are you just happy to see me or is that a breadstick in your pocket, boy?”

Dave’s eyes widened as he dropped a hand down to his pants, fingers working to shove down the top of the roll sticking out of his pocket. “I… I’m sorry, Mr. Hummel, sir.”

Burt waved the words away, an odd look on his face. “You don’t have to hide food, Dave. I don’t starve my kids.” He smiled tiredly at the boy and Dave looked away. No, a man like Burt wouldn’t starve him. But there was a difference between starving someone and moderating what they ate so they didn’t eat you out of house and home.

“So… how ‘bout that pie?”

* * *

Dave shivered, running his hands along his bare legs. There were goosebumps on his skin from the cold but he didn’t dare try and cover himself. Dressed in nothing but a pair of Finn’s old boxers, he sat on the edge of the couch trying his best to remember how to breathe.

A warm body was pressed up against him, a hand making its way down his naked back. He squeezed his eyes shut as he felt warm breath against his neck, the strong scent of beer wafting into his nostrils.

“David.” The word was a promise, and not the good kind. It was a promise of pain and fear and helplessness to come and there was no way to escape. He would be freer locked in a cell than trapped in this societal prison.

Hands shaking he reached down to tug down his borrowed boxers, the look in the man’s eyes instruction enough. A rough hand grasped his cock and Dave bit his lip as the man tugged at the limp member for a moment then moved downward to his balls, roughly pinching at them until he elicited a small cry.

“How do you want it, slut?” the man asked, his bald head shining in the dim moonlight seeping in from the window. “On your back like a girl-bitch or on all fours like a dog-bitch?”

Dave just shook his head, knowing better than to answer. They didn’t care what he wanted. If they cared what he wanted then he wouldn’t be in this position to begin with.

There was a sharp slap to the side of his face and he cringed. “Well?!”

“Wh-whatever you want, sir,” he whispered. “Anything you want.”

The man nodded sharply. “That’s a good boy.” He grabbed Dave by the shoulder and pushed, pressing his back up against one of the couch arms, and then reached underneath the boy to draw his legs up and apart, leaving his ass exposed.

Dave obligingly hooked one of his legs over the back of the couch and reached a hand around to hold the other up, spreading them as wide as he could. Maybe it made him a slut, but it was worth it to go along with it. Your asshole was a muscle and, like, any other muscle, when you got tense, it tightened, which did not make for a comfortable fucking. The trick was to relax as much as you could and just let what was going to happen, happen. The more you struggled, the tighter your ass was and the more it hurt. People had some crazy idea that an asshole was like a pussy, that it would loosen up with use, but that wasn’t what asses were made for and it didn’t matter if you you’d been buttfucked a thousand times—you didn’t get any looser. The only thing that could loosen you up was working the muscle before you started, stretching it gently and then shoving in before it had time to tighten up again.

A normal person would probably rather bleed than take it like a whore, but Dave had enough experience in the area to know that it wasn’t worth it. You felt just as horrible on the inside either way—might as well quell the pain on the outside a little.

Dave glanced down, trying to get a look at the man’s cock. Was he big? His Pops was big. But was this his Pops? He couldn’t remember… Why couldn’t he remember? It had to be his Pops. The bald head, the rough look, the masculine scent. He looked tougher than the tricks Dave tended to take. This was the kind of guy who knew how to do a hard day’s work.

“Here we go.” The words were hoarse and rough and Dave let out a little whimper as he felt a finger shove into him. There was a little wetness, probably just spit, though. Maybe if he was lucky he’d get some lube before the man put it all in. It wasn’t always very comfortable for the fucker to shove into the fuckee without something to help it slip in easy. Friction and all that. He wondered idly if he would rate a condom or if the man would be barebacking him. His Pops barebacked him all the time, God save his soul. But for some reason this just didn’t seem like his Pops.

Dave pulled his leg further upward, hoping that he might get the chance to hook it over the man’s shoulder after he pushed his dick in. His muscles were already aching from holding it upright and it would probably be quite awhile before they were finished. Of course that pain would be nothing compared to the burning sensation when the man’s cock entered him.

He sucked in a sharp breath, eyes rolling back in his head to stare at nothing as he felt the tip of something much larger than a thumb or a finger pressing into him. He gritted his teeth, careful not to nip his tongue, and let out a grunt of pain, fingernails digging into his own palms.

The man began to fuck him rhythmically, shoving in and out at a good speed as he let out little sounds of pleasure.

“God, you’re tight.”

They always said that. What did they expect? The Grand Canyon? Of course he was tight. It was an asshole. It was made for shitting. It would be kind of uncomfortable if shit just slipped out while you were walking to school.

Dave turned his face as sweat dripped off the other man, trailing into his eyes. They were pretty close in height, close enough that he could look the man right in the eyes if he wanted. Not that he wanted that. He wasn’t sure who was on top of him, and he really didn’t want to know.

“I guess you are good for something,” the man muttered, his bedside talk oh-so-charming. “Maybe my boy *should* stick you in a tent in the backyard.”

Dave blinked. Stick him in a tent? What did that mean? The word teased his mind and he frowned deeply, trying to remember just what was so important about that word.

“But you just remember—that’s all you’re good for. Don’t you be trying to mess with my boy’s head. He’s better than you. You’re not worth the ground he walks on, you sweaty, chubby bully.”

Sweaty… chubby… bully…

Dave let out a yelp as the man's head raised up and Burt Hummel leered down at him, his rough hands making their way up his chest to wrap slowly around Dave’s neck, the pounding thrusts of his dick into Dave's hole never pausing.

No! No, no, no!

Dave tried to sit up, failing miserably as Burt dropped all his weight down on him, shoving the leg he was holding up so far back that it was painful. Then the fingers closed around his throat and his breath was totally gone.

“Dad? What’s going on?”

Dave turned his head to the side, trying desperately to call out as his eyes latched onto Kurt’s slender form, but he was unable to spare the air, Burt’s hands contining to choke him.

A sickened look came over Fancy’s beautiful face and Dave let out a silent sob, tears flowing freely down his cheeks.

“Dave?” Burt was suddenly standing over him instead of inside him, the man still thrusting into Dave having somehow miraculously transformed into his Pops. Burt’s voice was worried as he reached down to touch Dave’s face and Dave let out a scream with breath he didn’t know he had.

“Dave?! Dave, wake up!”

Dave let out a cry and flung out a hand, connecting with the man’s face. Burt stumbled back a few steps, grasping at his cheek, his eyes wide, and Dave sat up straight on the couch, arms wrapped around his sweating, shaking chest.

Oh God, oh God, oh God.

Burt blinked then shook his head as if to clear it, reaching out. Dave flinched, anticipating the blow, then slowly looked up when it didn’t come. Oh, God… had he just hit Burt? He had. Oh God, was he going to die? He’d hit his father once when he was… having his way… with him. He hadn’t been able to get out of bed for a week.

“Dave,” the man said softly, “wake up. You’re okay. It was just a dream.”

A dream? It was… just a dream?

Dave took in a sharp breath. Of course it was just a dream. Was he out of his mind? Burt Hummel wouldn’t do that… Would he? Dave swallowed hard, licking his lips nervously as he glanced around, trying to calm his panicking brain, assessing the situation.

He was in the Hummels’ living room, on the couch, that much he knew. He wasn’t wearing much, just a pair of Finn’s old boxers with the Superman logo all over them, but that was because they had let him take a shower and Carole had put his clothes in the wash. Not because Burt wanted him undressed. Right?

Dave glanced over at the afghan he’d knocked onto the floor with his flailing, wanting to pick it up and use it to cover himself but not wanting to offend Burt. Being dressed when someone was, well, *not*, was a psychological advantage—any real man knew that—and Burt would probably want to use it to his advantage, especially after Dave had smacked him in the face. It wasn’t like it really mattered. Psychological advantage or no psychological advantage, Burt Hummel was in control. Dave was just along for the ride.

He dropped his gaze as the other man slowly ran his eyes up and down his body, doing his best to look as submissive as possible, slumping his shoulders and wrapping his big arms around his chest again in an attempt to look smaller. It probably didn’t have much of an effect considering that he was fucking enormous, but anything he could do to look less like a threat was well worth the effort.

“You look like you hurt, Dave.”

Dave jerked, looking up sharply. He looked like he hurt? What did that mean? Was it a threat? An observation? A promise? Why would he say something like that? Was he going to make him hurt? What did he want? Dave forcibly choked down his panic and wet his lips nervously, meeting Burt’s eyes for an instant before rolling them submissively off to the side. “I… I’m okay.”

Dave relaxed minutely when, instead of sitting down next to him on the couch, Burt grabbed a recliner and tugged it over a few feet until he was sitting pretty much knee to knee with Dave. He’d rather their knees be touching than their thighs.

“Those are some pretty nasty bruises,” Burt said quietly as he reached out, halting his hand when Dave flinched, his fingers hovering in the air above one of the deep purple bruises marring the boy’s face.

Dave’s heart sped up and he wished desperately for whatever this was to be over with.

“I bruise easy,” he lied, raising his eyes long enough to give Burt’s face a thorough searching, praying to whoever might listen that there would be no hint of a mark where Dave’s hand had met his cheek.

Burt nodded silently, not really in an accepting way, more like he just needed something to do.

Dave took another slow breath, his brain going a million miles an hour as he tried desperately to figure out what this man wanted from him. Sex? He shivered at the thought, the memory of that dream much too vivid in his mind for comfort, but he doubted that was what Burt was out here for. Some married men liked something a little rougher on the side, the kind of stuff that a wife would never let them do, but Burt just didn’t seem like the type. The way he looked at Carole was too… something. It just didn’t remind Dave of a cheater.

Did he want money? Surely not. He knew that Dave had none to give, and the state wasn’t lending the Hummels a penny to keep his fat ass under their roof. Somehow he didn’t think that it would even occur to a man like Burt that he could put Dave on the street to pick up small bills on his knees in dark alleys and dirty bathrooms.

A punching bag? Dave was good at that, for sure, and Burt had every excuse to want to beat him senseless. But he didn’t have to wait until they were alone in the dark for that. Burt could beat Dave anywhere and people would just cheer him on. Hell, he deserved it. It would be a nice, hot dish of karma.

Burt let out a small sigh, running a thumb across the cheek Dave had struck. 

Dave winced. “I’m sorry I hit you Mr. Hummel, sir,” he whispered, clasping his hands together in his lap. God, he felt naked. And alone. And cold. “I really didn’t mean to do it, sir. I… wasn’t awake. I thought you were… that you were…” His tongue flicked out nervously. “I thought you were… someone else.” Wow, that sounded lame.

“It’s okay, Dave,” Burt said. “I can’t pretend that I’m not a little angry with you, but I am *not* angry at you for *that*. I know you were asleep. I could tell. That’s why I came in here. I went to the kitchen to get some water and I heard you crying.”

Dave blinked. He came in here because he… heard him crying? Dave rubbed his hands nervously down his bare legs, fingernails catching in the hair. “I’m sorry I woke you up, Mr. Hummel. I should have told you… I… I have nightmares sometimes.” Sometimes? Every night was more like it. Or every night that he was sleeping in the same house as a Man In Power, anyway. It had gotten him kicked out of more than one foster home. “Another reason I should probably sleep in the garage.”

“What were you dreaming about?” Burt questioned, actually looking worried.

Being raped by you? Somehow Dave didn’t think that Burt would like that answer. And if he did, well, then Dave didn’t want to know it. “Just… stuff. Stuff that happened a long time ago. With my dad.”

“I take it you and your dad don’t have a very good relationship?”

That was a very diplomatic way to say that his Pops was a son of a bitch. And that Dave was a pathetic whore. “I guess. I mean, I love him. He’s my dad. We just don’t always get along so good.” He shrugged. “It’s mostly my fault.” He waved vaguely between them. “Obviously I’m not anyone’s dream kid.”

Burt shook his head, chuckling. “And you think that Kurt is? My God, that boy has a mouth on him! Sometimes I don’t know if I’m talking to my son or a PMSing Disney Princess. And Finn? He used to toss my son into Dumpsters! He and his little friends nailed our lawn furniture to our roof!”

Dave gave a short laugh. “Finn actually wasn’t there for that one. He was grounded. Puck was the ringleader on that.”

Burt smiled at him. “And yet Kurt considers Noah Puckerman his friend. Nobody’s perfect, Dave. I seriously doubt that 100% of your family problems can be traced back to you.”

Dave gave him a tiny smile. “Thanks, I guess. I… I really am sorry for all the stuff I’ve done to Kurt.”

Burt nodded seriously. “Like I said: I can’t pretend that it doesn’t still make me angry, Dave. Kurt is my son and I love him more than life itself. I admit, I have spent more than a few afternoons imagining myself clocking you one, fist to face. But Kurt has a heart of freaking gold when he wants to, and it’s one of the things I admire most about him. He’s willing to forgive you, and I find that pretty impressive.”

Dave lowered his eyes. “You can hit me if you want to.” He took a deep breath. “Or… or beat me. You don’t have to worry about me, Mr. Hummel. I know how to be a good boy and keep my mouth shut. You can get some good use out of those billion extension cords everyone has stuffed somewhere in their house and Kurt never has to know.” He laughed. “I got so many bruises already, what are a few dozen more, right?”

Burt made a frustrated sound and Dave looked up, frowning at the look on the man’s face, then dropping his eyes again.

“Dave… that’s now what I meant. I was kidding, sort of. I am not going to beat you. Dave? Look at me. Please?”

His voice was almost pleading and Dave took a deep breath, raising his gaze slowly, a little afraid of what he might see. But Burt's eyes were surprisingly kind.

“Dave, I am not going to beat you. Ever. I don’t believe in doing that to people. Especially not children.” He frowned deeply. “Is that… is that what the guard did to you today? Did he… beat… you?”

Dave blinked, surprised. Burt didn’t know what had happened today? Kurt hadn’t told him? He’d thought with all the Brokeback Mountain comments… No wonder he’d let him eat at their table. He didn’t realize what Dave was.

“Wha? No… I… Well… I…” Oh what the hell. He might as well get it over with. The man would find out eventually and then he’d be out faster than than he could say 'goodbye'. Might as well do it before he got too comfortable. “I blew him.”

Burt blinked, brow furrowing. “Excuse me?”

“I blew him. Sucked his cock. Licked his balls. Whatever you wanna call it.”

Dave’s eyes widened at the almost frighteningly shocked look that passed over Burt’s face. 

“You… you mean that you *are* gay?”

Dave shifted uncomfortably on the couch, wishing once more that he wasn't quite so naked. “I… yeah. No. I dunno. I guess.”

“But… they said the guard attacked you…”

Dave snorted. “Nah, Kurt just walked in on it and freaked out. The guard? He paid my Pops for me to give him head. I mean, I didn’t have much of a choice, but I didn’t fight him or nothin’. There’s really no point in fighting. I just try not to think about it much.”

Man, if the look on Burt’s face was anything to judge by, Dave might very well want to start running now. Dave shifted again, pointedly placing his hands over his balls. The man had gone from concerned to furious in, like, an instant. This didn’t look good.

“Oh my God… Dave… has that ever happened to you before?”

Dave tongued his cheek, looking off to the side. He *really* didn’t like the faces Burt was making. He tensed as a palm came down on his knee, his thoughts flying back to his earlier dream. Oh dear God, don’t let him have misjudged Burt. The man hadn’t seemed to want him before, but he hadn’t really known what he was, had he? He was probably seeing Dave’s cheap ass in a whole new way now.

“It’s… happened before.” The words came out a little hoarse and he swallowed, trying to clear away the bile that was beginning to rise in his throat before it could spill out. Somehow he didn't think spewing on the man would help anything. He choked it down and steeled himself. He could handle this. He just had to play it right, get it over with, then he could leave and never have to think about it again.

Dave took a deep breath and reached out, mirroring Burt’s hand with his own, his thick fingers stroking across the man’s cotton pajama bottoms.

Burt jerked slightly, giving him a strange look as he pushed the boy’s hand off his knee.

“God, Dave… When?”

Dave licked his lips and reached out again, touching Burt’s knee once more. “I don’t remember. A lot.” He shivered, more from the memories flooding through him than from the chilly room, but Burt frowned, reaching out to rub him on the arm.

“Aren’t you cold, sitting there in just that?”

Dave looked up, catching his eye. “You… you wanna warm me up?”

Burt blinked, his mouth opening and closing in silence for a moment before he spoke. “I… excuse me?”

Dave looked pointedly between them, doing his best to keep down the sickness rising in his gut as he dropped a hand to his crotch, roughly fondling his own balls through the thin boxers. “Look, I… I’m no virgin. And I’m used to it hurting.” He made a choked sound as he tried to block the images of ten, twenty, a hundred men from his past, all with Burt's face, that were swarming his mind. “I… I just don’t wanna talk about it, okay?" His voice was pleading, but he didn't care. Let Burt think he was weak. He *was* weak. "Just do it. Don’t make me tell you about it. I don’t wanna talk about it.” To talk about it, he’d have to think about it. And thinking about it hurt way more than just taking it ever could. Physical pain was just that: Physical. No burning in the ass could ever measure up to the pain he felt inside whenever he stopped to actually think about the things he did.

“What I… Oh my God...” 

Dave flinched as Burt suddenly shoved his chair back several feet, holding his hands up like Dave had a gun pointed at him, a shocked look on his face. “You thought I was…? No. No, no, no! Oh God, no!” Dave winced at the vehemence in his tone, hunching his shoulders as he tried to make himself look small. "Why the hell would you think...?!"

“I thought... after you realized... You touched my knee. And asked me if I was cold… because I’m not wearing clothes…” It had made more sense in his head. But that was because he was fucked up, wasn't it?

Burt pressed a hand to his mouth, actually looking as though he was going to be sick. “I was just worried that you were cold… I hadn’t even thought about the fact that you aren’t wearing clothes… God, Dave, I would never do that! That’s disgusting!”

Dave’s cheeks began to burn and he drew his knees up to his chest, wrapping his arms around them and burying his face. Burt was right. It was disgusting. *He* was disgusting, for even thinking that Kurt’s father would ever want *that*. God, he was so sick. What was wrong with him? He shouldn’t be here. He tainted everything he touched. 

Dave fought back a sob. God, he was so tired. Why couldn’t he just die?

“Dave? Dave, talk to me.”

The feeling of a hand caressing the back of his head broke through Dave’s emotions and he sniffed, forcing back his choked cries. Burt had pulled his chair back up to the couch and had an arm wrapped around him, holding Dave’s big shoulders steady.

“I’m sorry,” Dave said miserably, his voice cracking. “I’ll leave. I should never have come here. Kurt should never have asked me. He doesn’t understand. He… he doesn’t get it. He thinks it’s them, but I know it’s not. He doesn’t understand that it isn’t them, it’s all me. How could it be them? There were so many. The only thing in common is me. It has to be something wrong with me.” He let out another choked sob and reached out, blindly grasping for Burt’s hand. “Please… please don’t tell him? I don’t want him to remember me as this. I’ve never had anybody who treated me like he does. Just pretend that I left in the night and you didn't even know? Please, Mr. Hummel?”

“Dave, no… it’s not your fault. There’s nothing wrong with you. You were the victim, Dave.”

Dave let out a sharp laugh, not caring if it sounded a little crazy. “I’m not a victim, Mr. Hummel. You said so yourself at the detention center. I’m so sorry.”

Burt took a deep breath, catching Dave’s face between his palms. “No. No, no, no. This is not what I was talking about, Dave. I don’t want you to leave, okay? It’s alright…”

“Dad?”

Dave jerked as the sleepy sound of Kurt’s voice came from the direction of the stairwell.

“Dad? What are you doing still up—” Kurt paused in the doorway, his eyes growing wide as he took in the scene before him. Dave blushed and ducked his head, leaning his body away from Burt. This night just kept getting better and better.

“What is going on here?” Kurt’s voice was strained as he quickly made his way over to the sofa, plopping down beside Dave, his silk nightgown billowing around him. “Dave, are you okay?” He reached out, wiping at the tears that had escaped down the boy’s cheeks, then glared at his father. “Dad! What did you say to Dave?!”

“It’s not his fault, Kurt,” Dave said miserably as he rubbed at his face with the palms of his hands. “It was me…”

And it was him. All him. He had started this whole mess and, like an avalanche, it just kept tumbling down, growing bigger and bigger, leaving a mass of destruction in its path. This was wrong. Kurt shouldn’t have anything to do with this. It was *his* mess. Kurt had just been caught up in the rubble. It wasn’t right. He couldn’t stay here. It just. Wasn’t. Right.

Dave stood abruptly, almost sending Kurt toppling off the couch as he pushed him to the side. “I… I need to go.”

Burt stood, frowning deeply as he reached out for him. “Dave, no—”

But Dave was already across the room and out the door by the time his name slipped from the man’s lips, his bare feet slapping against the cold pavement.

Kurt would be better off without him. Anything else was just a dream.


	15. Miracle on 56th Street

Damn, his feet were cold. He really should have known better than to run off without his boots Or his pants. Not that he’d had a lot time to think it through, but with dirty snow squishing between toes that he could barely feel, he was beginning to wish he’d paused long enough to grab his damn shoes.

Dave tipped over another of the big garbage cans lining this middle class land of luxury, hoping to hell that this one would have clothes in it. Of course, it didn’t. Because that would mean Dave had some semblance of luck. Nothing but banana peels, Coke cans, and cat litter.

He kicked the ripped bag out of annoyance. Twelve down, the rest of the neighborhood to go. He paused before the next house, eyes narrowing a little. There was no trash bin out and the mailbox was overflowing with mail. Newspapers were scattered across the broad drive and the grass hadn’t been mowed in at least a week. The house might as well have been wearing a neon sign that said ‘VACATION’ in blinking letters. Talk about a Sears for thieves.

Dave glanced around to make sure it was clear--talk about a bad time to run into a police cruiser--then took a deep breath and headed up to the house. He ducked off to the side, trying to stay in the shadows as he fiddled with the gate. Locked. Dammit!

Dave gritted his teeth. What kind of fuckwits went off on vaycay, took the effort to lock an easily hopped fence, but didn’t bother to get someone to pick up their mail? Well, it didn’t matter. Dave was a big boy and eight feet of wood paneling wasn’t going to stop him.

The wood scraped his chest as he hauled his body over the fence, and he grimaced as the thin material of Finn’s stupid Superman boxers did little to keep his balls from getting scratched. He landed lightly on the balls of his feet—or he thought it was lightly, anyway. His toes were so cold it was hard to feel anything at all.

It was all good.

A sudden barking made Dave jump a foot in the air and he immediately backed himself against the fence, ready to make a clumsy leap over it if any canine killers appeared. After a very tense moment he relaxed, letting out a sigh of relief. Maybe did have a *little* bit of luck, because the barking was coming from the neighbor’s yard. Safe for now, but it meant that he needed to hurry. If it barked too long someone might come out and look, and the last thing he needed to add to his one piece outfit was a matching pair of metal bracelets, complete with chain in the middle.

Dave shivered, the cold an ever present reminder of the other reason he needed to hurry the fuck up. It would be nice to get in *before* his balls receded totally into his body.

He began to fiddle with the window. The lock was cheap and it didn't take much to get in open. The house was nice, so he took the time to wander into the garage, checking to make sure there wasn't any sort of silent alarm going off.

Okay, he was good. Now, to find some clothes. He headed upstairs, peeking in rooms. A study, a guestroom, and, finally, the bedroom.

Dave began to yank open drawers, rummaging through them, tossing shirt after shirt to the floor. This was a big fucking house, goddammit! A family sized house! Why the hell was there nothing but women’s clothing? Maybe they were lesbos. Or drag queens. At least the clothes looked like they might actually fit—-God bless America and all its obese women. Now if he could just find *something* to wear that wasn’t hot pink or covered in rhinestones, he’d be rockin’ and rollin’.

Seriously, this woman had no taste. A Hello Kitty sweater? He didn’t think so. A blousy shirt with a flower print? No way. Some dandelion-yellow trousers with an elastic waistband? Even Betty White couldn’t get away with that shit. A sparkly pink tank top? Not even if you paid him. Well, okay, if you paid him. But nothing less than twenty bucks.

Finally, after digging through just about every drawer in the house, Dave found a pair of black sweatpants stuffed in the back of a closet. They were a little short in the leg and a bit big on the waist, but they covered him and that was what counted. It had a matching black hoodie. There was something about breast cancer awareness printed across the front in pink, swirly letters but it was better than anything else the bitch had. Hopefully she had taken her good clothes with her on vacation because this was just sad.

Dave left the clothes he’d pulled from the drawers laying on the ground, not really giving a shit if the woman freaked out when she came home. The dog was still barking outside and he needed to leave, fast. Hell, she was lucky he wasn’t taking her TV. If there were any pawn shops within a ten mile radius he might have, but this was the good side of town. He *did* need some moola to get… get where? That made him pause for a moment. He hadn’t actually thought much about where he was going when running madly down the street away from the Hummels’ house. Away from Kurt’s disgust.

Where *would* he go? Back to his Pops’ place? It was probably the only place he could go without getting arrested again. He was supposed to be with the Hummels after all. He could get away with ringing his social worker and letting the bitch know that he’d decided the Nice Upstanding Citizens deserved better than to have his fat ass on their couch. She’s probably agree. But if he just wandered around, they’d put a warrant out for him for sure and, once they tracked his anklet, he’d be back in a cell.

Besides, it wasn’t like he had any place else to go Dave doubted his old man was real happy with him at the moment, though. Probably wouldn’t even let him in the door. Maybe if he turned a few tricks and showed up with some cash in hand… Nah, it would be morning in a few hours. All possible johns would be at home in bed by the time he made it back to his hood.

Dave glanced around the living room, frowning. What could he take that was small enough to carry but pricey enough for his Pops to let him in the door? The jewelry box had been full of fake shit. Nobody bought the expensive stuff when they could get the WalMart crap.

Fancy TV, DVD player, Bose sound system, a Wii. Shit, this place was almost as nice as the Adams’ house.

The Adams. Dave blinked. Maybe… maybe he could go to the Adams’? Just for one night. Then he could catch a bus in the morning, give his social worker a ring that he was back on the bad side of town, and get on the corner early evening to turn a few tricks. He could grab some dude clothes at Goodwill so he wouldn’t have to wear the breast shirt anymore and he’d be on a roll. Make enough dough to bribe his way back in with his Pops… It was a good plan.

Okay, there were a few loopholes, the main one being that his ass wasn’t exactly high priced goods. But, at this point, he was willing to do just about anything. Ten dollar sucks and twenty dollar fucks didn’t get you far fast, but if he took some rough trade, maybe even agreed to some barebacking… He could rake it in. It wasn’t like he really cared anymore if he got AIDS. His life was already shit. He might as well get sick, too.

But no. He couldn’t go to the Adams’ house! What was he thinking? He’d already messed up enough fucking lives! Look what he’d done to poor Kurt. Yeah, the boy was a princess, but he was also a good kid with a good family. Ten seconds in their house and he’d fucked it up. And he’d fucked it up *way* worse than just knocking over a Christmas tree or even puking in their car. He’d hit on Kurt’s fucking dad, not even a *day* after Kurt had kissed him and… and…

God, he felt sick to his stomach. He’d be lucky if Kurt only spit in his face when he saw him in court. A kick in the balls was probably more deserved.

There was obviously something wrong with Dave and it spread like fucking cancer. He didn’t want to pass on any more than he already had to the Adams. He had used them enough.

…But it was cold outside, really cold, and with that dog barking like crazy and a dozen trashcans turned over in the street, he needed to get out of this place pronto. The Adams’ house was just so *nice*. It was never cold and never hot, always a perfect temperature. All their stuff was shiny and fancy and clean and nothing smelled like booze or barf or sex—the three things that pretty much described the sort of blankets Dave had at his Pops’ place. He was fairly sure they hadn’t been washed in years. At the Adams everything smelled like Pine Sol and lemon scented cleaner. It was homey and bright. They had flowers in vases, random knick knacks, and little family pictures stuck all over the place. Dave was even in some of the pictures. There was one on the mantel of him and Azimio playing a Madden NFL video game, and one by the recliner of the time they’d carved pumpkins with Mr. Adams. There was even one in the kitchen of them making cookies. Well, Mrs. Adams was making cookies while he and Azimio ate the dough. Dave really loved the Adams’ house. But he didn’t belong there.

Going there would just hurt the closest thing he’d ever had to a normal family. But he still needed somewhere safe and warm to go, which wasn’t an easy find. Not this late at night in the middle of suburbia. There wasn’t even an overfilled shelter to try and beg his way into, and the rich people churches all shut down instead of staying open to let kids sleep in the Sunday School classrooms.

No. He was not going to bed any more off of the Adams.

But maybe… maybe he could go and stay there without their knowing? *That* wouldn’t hurt them, and it would keep him safe. Their house was on 56th Street, only a couple miles away, and they had a garage. Dave was pretty sure he could get the door open, then he could sleep in the backseat of one of their fancy cars. He’d leave in the morning before they ever even saw him.

Mind made up, Dave smiled and headed to the door. He had a plan.

* * *

“Oh, God, where *is* he? He couldn’t have gotten far, could he?” Kurt stared out the window through the lightly falling snow, squinting as he tried to search the house fronts as his dad drove along slowly. His heart was pounding too fast. This was just *insane*. Dave had run out into the cold in nothing but his underwear? Crazy! If Kurt could have gotten out of his nightgown and into his clothes a second faster, he would have, but by the time they’d started trying to catch him, the trail was already cold—literally. The snow was steadily filling in the few prints his feet had made. “Oh my God, what if he gets frostbite?!”

“He’s not gonna get frostbite, Kurt,” Burt said, though the tightness of his shoulders and his white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel did nothing to calm Kurt’s nerves. “Carole is out looking too, and Finn will let him in if he decides to come back. He’s gonna be fine.”

Kurt made a frustrated sound. “I don’t know why you wouldn’t let me take my car out, too! Three people looking is better than two!”

Burt sucked in a deep breath, letting it out in a whoosh. “Yeah, well, I want to talk to you, Kurt. About… About Dave.”

Kurt frowned, glancing over at his father for a moment before turning back to the window, dutifully searching for any sign of movement. Was that?!—oh, no, it was just a cat. All the more reason to hate pussy. “Yeah, well, I would like to talk, too,” he replied tightly. “What did you say to make him run off, Dad? I *told* you that he’s my *friend* now!”

There was a long enough silence that Kurt looked over again, eyes widening as he took in his father’s almost defeated posture. “Dad?”

Burt sighed, rubbing at his forehead tiredly. “Kurt… How much do you know about Dave Karofsky? I mean, outside of school stuff?”

Kurt frowned at the seriousness of his dad’s voice, running his hands nervously over his knees. What did he mean, how well did he know Dave Karofsky? “Not a whole lot. What, exactly, do you mean?” He voice came off a little prim, but he didn’t care. Did his dad suspect… God, Kurt couldn’t even *think* the words. It was pitiful.

“I mean… Well, I just mean that…” Burt laughed, a hoarse sound. “Dang, Kurt, I dunno if I should even be talking about this stuff to you. It’s kind of private stuff. But you… you spent a couple of days with him. I was wondering…” His hands played on the steering wheel, sliding back and forth like they just needed something to do. “Did he mention anything about his, um, home life, or whatever?”

Kurt swallowed hard, not sure what to do. He didn’t want to betray Dave’s trust but… but there was a point where you just had to do things for people’s own good. Kissing him in a locker room was one thing. Keeping secret that he was brutally abused and molested by his dad? That one was harder to decide on. “He mentioned it… some. It was… pretty messed up, the things he said. I don’t think he even realizes how messed up it was.” He wrapped his arms around himself, suddenly cold despite the blasting heater. “His dad beat him up and burned him and did all sorts of crazy stuff I didn’t even catch, but Dave pretty much told me that he deserved it.”

Burt looked over at him, raising an eyebrow. “You think he deserved it?” There was an almost accusatory sound to his voice.

Kurt’s mouth dropped open. “What? No, of course not! He may be a big bully but nobody deserves that!” He scowled. “You know me better than that, Dad!”

Another whoosh of air came from Burt as he nodded, the light from the street lamps reflecting off his bald scalp. “I do. I’m sorry, Kurt. I’m just sort of on the edge. Did Dave… did he mention any other kind of abuse? Like, maybe, of the,” he cleared his throat, “well, the more personal—oh, hell, how messed up is it that kids live through it and I can’t even man up and say it?” He laughed bitterly.

Kurt turned back to the window, staring dully into the darkness. “Of the sexual kind, you mean? He… didn’t say a lot. It definitely wasn’t clear. But from what I understood, his father…” He choked a little on the word. A man that did that sort of thing to his son didn’t deserve the title of ‘father.’ “His father molested him. Except from the way he described it, I don’t think that’s a good word. Molested. It just sounds so… neat. I’m pretty sure his dad raped him. And… and gave him to other men to rape. For money. And that he was maybe raped in some foster homes, but I’m not sure about that.”

“Dear Lord,” Burt muttered, hands tightening on the wheel again. “That is just… how the hell could anyone do that to their kid?” Without warning he raised a hand, smacking in onto the steering wheel hard enough to make Kurt jump. “The bastard! I don’t understand it! His own son! Hell, I’d hardly believe it if I hadn’t seen the results of that kind of sick crap tonight.”

The results? Kurt frowned deeply. “Dad, what happened?” He hugged his arms to his chest. “Why did Dave run away?”

Burt shook his head, looking exhausted. “I was getting a drink and I saw him having some kind of nightmare on the couch. So I went over to wake him up and he was still dreaming… I shouldn’t have touched him, but I didn’t think about it. He swung and hit me in the face.” He touched a hand to his cheek. “Nothing big. I knew it was an accident. But the poor kid looked terrified when he figured out what he’d done. Offered to let me hit him. Made a joke about using extension cords for something useful. Or I hope it was a joke. Now I’m thinking it probably wasn’t.” Burt laughed, but it definitely wasn’t a good sound. “That was when I first started getting sick to my stomach. He thought I’d beat him with a damn *extension* cord ‘cause he accidentally smacked me when I woke him up?”

“That’s really sad,” Kurt said quietly.

Burt raised an eyebrow, glancing over at him. “Sad? It’s a hell of a lot more than sad. Do you have any idea what those things do to people, Kurt?”

Kurt bit his lip. He really didn’t. It wasn’t like he’d ever associated something you used to hook up your Christmas lights with beating someone. “I guess… I guess that would kind of hurt.”

“Kind of hurt.” Another laugh, low and bitter. “People *die* from being beaten with things like that, Kurt. They can break bones, cut your skin to the muscle… all sorts of bad things. We’re not talking lightly slapping someone. We’re talking a cord with a weight on the end swung as hard as you can. That’s the kind of stuff women go to safe houses to get away from.” He made a sad sound. “When your mother was a nurse at the clinic downtown, she used to tell me about women who’d come in covered in cuts and bruises. They’d try and convince them to go to a place like SafeHaven or an unlisted women’s shelter. But ninety-percent of the time, once they were stitched up, they’d be back with the man who did it to them. Acting like it was nothing. Just like Dave acted like it was nothing. Just a normal day in hell.”

Kurt swallowed down the lump rising in his throat. He’d known his mom had volunteered her nursing skills at a women’s shelter, but he’d never thought about what she’d have encountered.

“She told me all these terrible things, but I guess I never connected it to real people. Hell, Dave could very well have *been* one of the poor little kids she’d come home and cry about it. And I’d just pat her back and tell her it would all be okay. Okay for us. But what about them?”

“That’s so sad,” Kurt whispered, blinking back tears.

“Then I find out about that guard? A boy isn’t even safe when he’s over six feet tall and packing at least a couple hundred pounds?” Burt’s voice sounded disgusted. “Why didn’t you tell me what that guard did to him, Kurt?”

Kurt shifted uncomfortably in his seat, staring out the window as he tried to fight back the emotions pouring over him. He wasn’t sure he could handle them at the moment. “It… It just didn’t seem polite,” he said finally, voice barely a whisper.

Burt snorted. “Hell, yeah, it’s not polite. It sure as hell wasn’t polite what he did to the kid! The worst part, though? He tells me it wasn’t rape. ‘Cause, apparently, if you don’t fight it tooth and nail then they’re not raping you. Never mind that you’re just a freaking kid, barely sixteen years on this planet!”

“I know,” Kurt said, rubbing at his eyes. “It’s horrible. Is… Is that why Dave left? Because you found out about that?”

There was another long silence before Burt spoke, his voice a little hoarse. “No. He left because… hell, I don’t even know how to explain what happened. We were sitting there, just talking. I was worried about him, he’d seemed so upset when he woke up, and then that comment about beating him… The whole thing just turned into a mess, I don’t even know how. Next thing I know he’s got his hand on my knee and…” Burt sat up straight, wiping at his eyes with the back of his hand. “Shit. I don’t cry. God.” His voice cracked. “By now I’m thinking maybe I’m gonna be sick and the boy just starts babbling on and on about how he doesn’t care if it hurts, just don’t make him talk about it, he doesn’t want to talk about it, just do it… And I can barely get a ‘hell, no’ out of my mouth because I’m busy picturing how many ways I can rip apart the bastard who did this to a little boy. Then he just freaked out. And you came in… Then he took off. DAMN!” Burt slammed both his hands onto the steering wheel this time, jaw clenching. “I just don’t get how anyone can do this to their kid! Their son! Their little boy!” He reached out blindly, grabbing at Kurt’s arm as he wiped his eyes on his shoulder.

“I don’t know, either,” Kurt said, sniffling a little as he leaned into his dad’s touch. “And now that I know… Now I understand why he flipped out so much when he kissed me. And I had to go and make such a huge deal out of one stupid kiss…” Kurt let out a yelp as Burt suddenly slammed on the braked, the car skidding a little on the wet concrete. “Dad!”

“When he did what?” Burt asked, face a little red as he turned to stare at his son, eyes narrowed.

Oh shit. He hadn’t said… Oh, shit. “I… I don’t… I—”

“He *kissed* you, Kurt? When did he kiss you?”

Kurt ran his hands over his face, his mind screaming at him. Should he lie? Should he tell the truth? What would Dave want? He just didn’t know. This was all so insane! Oh, screw it. He might as well tell his dad. He knew everything else now. “You remember the whole constant bullying thing? And how it kind of got worse and worse?”

“It’s kind of hard to forget,” Burt replied, voice serious.

Kurt gave a choked laugh. “Yeah, well… It sort of got worse for a reason.” He sniffed, feeling miserable. “One day he pushed me and I got mad and chased him into the locker rooms. I was yelling, he was pissed… I thought he was going to hit me. But instead… instead he kissed me. Then I freaked out and… well, he ran off.”

Burt turned away, staring straight ahead, fists clenched on the steering wheel. “And you didn’t feel the need to tell me this, why, Kurt?” he asked, voice forcibly steady.

Kurt slumped down in his seat, cheeks red. “He… he didn’t want anyone to know.”

“Kurt…” Burt’s voice cracked. “Do you have any idea how much pain it could have saved everyone if you’d just been honest with me?” He turned back toward Kurt, the frown lines around his usually smiling mouth a strange sight. Kurt slumped down even more. The look on his dad’s face reminded him of when he’d found out that Kurt had been hitting on Finn, only ten times worse. “Sometimes you have to trust that adults know better, Kurt! I would really hope you’d trust me, at least!” He ran both hands over his head. “Even if Dave didn’t have hell for a life, a jock with that sort of secret? God, if that had been me when I was that age, I can’t imagine what I would have done. Kids like Dave are the sort that hang themselves in their football lockers, Kurt! And being sexually abused on top of it all? If you’d just *told* me, Kurt, we could have helped him, we could have helped you, we could have helped everybody!”

Kurt dropped his head, tears rolling down his cheeks. “I’m sorry, Dad,” he said, the guilt heavy on his chest. “I’m so sorry.”

Burt let out a sigh, reaching over and pulling Kurt to him. “No, no, don’t be sorry, Kurt. That wasn’t fair. This is *not* all your fault. You weren’t doing anything to be spiteful, you were trying to respect what Dave wanted. I’m just tired and worried… and I really wish none of this had happened.” He choked a little. “Except that’s not true. Because it wouldn’t take back the shit that happened to that poor kid these last sixteen years and he wouldn’t have anyone trying to help him if it hadn’t happened..”

Kurt sniffled, burying his face in his dad’s chest. “No, you’re right.” His voice came out muffled. “I messed up, I was stupid, I—”

“No, Kurt. No. It’s not your fault.”

“No, it was…” His dad was right. He should have told someone about Dave. He’d been so caught up in his own anger that he hadn’t even thought about what a gay kid, terrified to be outed, might do.

“No, Kurt. I’m sorry I said that. It wasn’t fair. But in the future, please try and trust me with stuff like that, okay? Please?”

Kurt nodded and his father sighed, patting him on the back as Kurt pulled away, wiping at the tears on his face. “It was so, so horrible, Dad, in that cell. He came right out and asked me how I liked it. As if there was some secret to enjoying being raped—since he seems to think that’s what gay men having sex are doing. Raping each other. Not that he believes it’s rape, which is what makes it all confused. He won’t believe that the things that were done to him was rape, so it must be what you do even with people you love.”

Burt wiped at his own suspiciously bright eyes. “It’s okay, Kurt. We’re gonna find him and bring him home.”

Kurt nodded and took a deep breath, steeling himself as his father put the truck back into drive. “Dad?” he asked after a moment, staring out into the blackness. “You… you don’t think he went back to that awful father, do you?”

There was a moment of silence before Burt spoke, voice quiet. “I don’t know, Kurt. I just don’t know.”

* * *

Dave rubbed at his arms, trying his best to warm himself up as he stared at the enormous house before him. Through the snow and the slushy muck, he had made his way to 56th street. The pauper had arrived at the palace.

The house was enormous. Well, to him anyway. It was two stories and looked like a giant version of some little girl’s dollhouse. There was a porch swing and a rocking chair and a tire swing hanging from one of the giant trees in the yard. All it needed was a lemonade stand and it would be straight out of the American Dream.

The Christmas lights were already up—the Adams lived in one of those neighborhoods that did lights so fancy that hundreds of people came every year to drive through it and look. They’d actually had to sign a form that they would put on an ‘adequate light show’ every year in order to move into the place. The lights twinkled against the snow and Dave couldn’t help but smile. Or he thought he smiled. It was kind of hard to feel his lips. Dave had helped them put the lights up, the day after Thanksgiving. Well, he and Azimio had strung some over the bushes anyway. Most of it had been done by the professional company they’d hired.

It was really beautiful. Once you got over the railroad tracks, the closest you came to Christmas lights were the ones in the cabana bars—and those were a year round thing.

Dave let his breath out in a whoosh, a poof of white clouding the air in front of him. This was a stupid idea. He should just find himself a bench somewhere. But it was definitely below freezing tonight and the clouds overhead were seriously menacing. The last time Dave had fallen asleep outside on a night like this he’d woken up soaking wet and shaking madly as two volunteers from the boys’ shelter on Broad Street had dragged him through the snow and up the steps into the shelter. Apparently the sky had decided to start gushing wet snow and, if there was one thing every kid north of the Bible Belt knew, it was that, in freezing weather, once you got wet it wasn’t a big jump to dead. A lot of homeless people died that way.

He’d had to sit under a hot shower for almost an hour before he’d stopped shaking. If Pastor Collins hadn’t decided to haul the trash out at midnight so he wouldn’t have to take it in the morning, Dave would probably have died.

Dave licked his lips nervously, regretting it instantly as the sudden wetness brought back enough feeling to make them sting. He was really starting to feel guilty about this whole idea, but his feet were fucking frozen, and it was just one night. The Adams wouldn’t even know he was there. He’d slip in like a freaking ghost and be gone in the morning. No hassles, no worries.

Dave headed toward the two car garage on the side of the house, careful to make smears in the snow instead of distinct footprints. God, he couldn’t wait to get inside so he could strip off the wet socks he was wearing. He honestly couldn’t feel his feet, well, not like he should be able to anyway. It was like he had one solid block of ice instead of toes and a bendable foot.

He walked as casually as he could, hoping no old people, awake with heartburn or something, were peeking out their curtains at him. At least he was white. In this fancy neighborhood being a black person was practically a crime in itself. The Adams didn’t count because they were so damn white inside that it shone through their skin, cloaking them in a pearly white rich-osity. If you were loaded, it didn’t matter what color your skin was. People would suck up to you, red or yellow, black or white, as long as you had so much cash you made Billy Graham’s church look like a poor cousin.

Dave came to a halt in front of the garage doors, reaching down and using all his strength to force it up a little. The door was remote controlled, so it didn’t want to rise, but he managed to pull it up a few feet, high enough to get under if he was willing to get down on his hands and knees in the slush. Which he was.

The snow was cold against his palms as Dave maneuvered himself under the door, but the comparatively warm garage made him sigh in relief. It was still cold, but not cold enough to see his own breath. He pushed the door back down as quietly as possible, not wanting to wake anyone, then began to strip off the layers of wet socks on his feet, hanging them up on a shelf in hopes that they might dry by morning. The knees of his sweatpants were soaked through as well from crawling under the door, but Dave left them on. He couldn’t take anymore nakedness that night. Hell, he never wanted to take his clothes off again.

Now, the real question, did he want to sleep in the snazzy Beemer or the spacious Lincoln Towncar? The BMW was cool looking but the Towncar was the top pick of federal judges and rich senators everywhere for a reason. They were damn big, and comfy, too. Dave could swear the backseat was softer than his bed at his old man’s place.

Dave opened the car door, climbing in and shutting it softly behind him. It still wasn’t truly warm, but it was better than nothing. He shivered, curling himself up in a ball on the wide seat. It was better than sleeping outside It would be nice to have a blanket, but he’d survive without one. He’d done it before and he’d do it again. The story of his life.

Out of nowhere Dave felt tears rising up in his eyes, threatening to roll down his cold face. It was amazing they hadn’t frozen on his damn lashes. God, he was so sick of living like this. He pulled his legs more tightly to his chest, swallowing down a sob. He *would* get through this. He’d had worse. Much worse. And he’d probably see worse again.

It really was the story of his life, wasn’t it? He’d get through one bad thing by reminding himself that he’d managed it before, and that it would happen again, so he’d better suck it up and deal. What kind of person comforted themselves by thinking that they’d be in the situation again another day? Talk about some fucked up logic. But considering that his life was just a long line of bad things happening, it worked.

Dave blinked back more tears. Going to McKinley had given him some hope, a light at the end of the tunnel, a chance to get away from the endless procession of bad thing after bad thing. A high school degree wasn’t much, but it was something. A way to get a job flipping burgers or cleaning toilets or *anything* other than laying there, holding his breath while some man whose name he didn’t even know climbed on top of him.

But now, with that lost to his own stupidity—why, why, *why* had he attacked Finn?!—it would be the mantra of his life. A cold front’s come in and you’ve got no clothes and no shoes and no place to sleep? No big deal. Been there, done that, will have to deal with it again next week. Gotten so hungry that you ate out of a trashcan them puked the rotten stuff all back up over the only clothes you own? Boo hoo. That’s what water fountains and hand soap are for. It won’t be the last time. Piss off your Pops, adding another broken bone to your collection? No need for a doctor. Duct tape makes a great cast and whiskey is an excellent pain killer.

Dave brushed angrily at the tears. God, when had he turned into such a whiner? His life wasn’t so bad. It could be worse. Logically he *knew* that. But lying there in the cold it was just so damn hard to believe. He really didn’t feel sorry for himself. You got what you deserve, his Pops had taught him that. From the day he was born, he’d been a loser. If he’d been a better kid, his mom wouldn’t have left him. If he wasn’t such a burden, Pops wouldn’t have to drink so much. If he was a better whore, he wouldn’t have to fuck so much. If he was smarter, he wouldn’t gave gotten hit so much. If he wasn’t such a bully, he wouldn’t have gotten kicked out of school. If he wasn’t such a slut, he wouldn’t have hurt Kurt and his dad. You make your own damn life, other people don’t make it for you. Dave had pissed in his own bed, and now he was lying in it. Not that it would teach him anything. It definitely hadn’t worked for potty training the way his foster parents had hoped. Dave had pissed the bed until he was thirteen.

He laughed bitterly at the thought, then shivered again, bringing his hands up to his face to try and blow warm air on his frozen nose.

The real question wasn’t why his life was shitty—it was why the hell he kept going at all? Everything he’d done was bad, there was no reason to think it would be any different in the future. What did he live for?

A fierce shiver went through him and he wrapped his arms back around himself. Maybe he should have just stayed outside in the cold. Leaned up against one of those beautiful trees in the Adams’ lawn, the lights shining down on him, and hoped that he’d slip into a sleep he’d never wake up from. Of course, it probably wasn’t really cold enough to kill him, not unless it rained, and all he’d wake up to was Mrs. Adams’ shouts. It was a nice idea, though. They said hypothermia was an easy death. But no, this weather would just make him suffer, shivers so hard they made him ache, his balls so cold they receded up inside him, his fingers and toes numb.

Another tear ran down Dave’s cheek.

A little flash of light caught his attention and he jerked, relaxing when he realized it was just moonlight from the small window flecting in the rearview mirror. There was a gold cross—maybe a necklace?—hanging from the mirror and Dave studied it with dark amusement. Maybe he should ask God for a little help. It couldn’t hurt, right? There was always a chance. He wasn’t usually a God person, but he’d prayed before. Not often, but before. In fact, the last time he remembered praying he’d been in a situation not unlike this. He chuckled hoarsely, batting his wet lashes as the memory of that night in the snow flashed through his mind. Apparently cold enough weather could make anyone a Christian.

 

Dave shivered, trying his best not to cry. Crying was a sign of weakness and if people thought you were weak, they would hurt you. It was so cold, though, and he was really, really hungry. Pops had disappeared again and he hadn’t seen him for over a week. He’d come home from school last Monday and found a lock and an eviction notice on the door. Dave hadn’t known that word, but old Mr. Tyrone who lived across the hall said that it meant he needed to get gone, that it wasn’t their place no more.

And so Dave had. He wasn’t sure if Pops was ever coming home again, but it wouldn’t be the first time he’d disappeared and come back a few weeks later, so there was hope. When Momma had left, she’d never come back. He’d waited all day for her in that dressing room until the Macy’s salespeople had found him at closing time and called the police. But she had never come back. Sometimes Dave had even snuck out of the foster home they put him in to wait there, just in case she came back to get him, but she never did. He really wished he hadn’t been such a bad mistake. He had loved his Momma.

Thinking about sad things wouldn’t help anything, though, and he needed to focus on the now. It was cold and he didn’t have a coat. He didn’t usually wear it to the rich school he went to ‘cause it was way too big for him and had holes. Better to be cold during recess than have the other boys make fun of him. Noah had kicked dirt in his face when he’d had to wear one of his old man’s enormous shirts ‘cause Pops had sold all of Dave’s clothes to the thrift store to pay for some more beer. And Scott had laughed at him said he looked like he was homeless when he’d had to use old string for shoelaces. So when they’d locked up his home, they’d locked up his coat, too. All he had was the dirty t-shirt he was wearing, his too-big jeans, and his school backpack. He really wished the holidays were over so he could go be warm at school.

All the shelters were full—they always were at Christmas time—and the churches that usually handed out food were busy having their Christmas Eve services. None of the all night stores around here would let a street kid hang out there. So he was sitting in an alley, which blocked some of the wind and snow but didn’t do much to keep him warm. He was considering climbing into the Dumpster. It was coated with snow but if he kind of buried himself down he might be warmer. Gross, but he’d take being smelly over not being able to feel his arms.

Some Christmas Eve. Dave hated Christmas, even if it was the birthday of God’s kid. He had never gotten a present in his whole life, not one, except for the candy that the shelters gave out and some socks one of his foster parents gave him. Last year he had gotten really excited because Mr. Harrison his foster dad had told him to make a Christmas list, too, and he would put it in with his Real Kids’ letters to Santa. Not that Dave believed in the Santa bullshit. But he had hoped that it meant maybe he would get a present. But he hadn’t gotten anything except the socks.

Maybe he had been too greedy when he wrote his list, and it made Mr. Harrison mad or something, but he hadn’t meant he wanted *all* of it, just maybe one of them. New sneakers or used sneakers that looked okay, a stuffed Raphael from the Ninja Turtles, a watch, a Cleveland Indians hat, jeans, and a Batman t-shirt. Maybe he should have made it clearer that he just wanted *one* of them. It had probably just been an accident, though. Mr. Harrison’s mother-in-law had decided to come for Christmas at the last second and so Dave had stayed mostly in the laundry room where he was sleeping so that she could have the guest room. Dave had only come out at night, so Mr. Harrison had probably just forgotten he was there. And it wasn’t like Dave wasn’t grateful for the socks. He was pretty sure they’d been meant for Mr. Harrison’s Real Son ‘cause they had the Power Rangers on them and Dave had only gotten white ones that were too big before. He’d liked them. Being bitter about it was stupid. He wasn’t a Real Kid. Why would you give some kid that’s not even yours presents?

Pastor Collins over at the shelter said that they were all God’s Real Kids, though. Dave wasn’t sure he believed that, wasn’t even sure he believed in God any more than he believed in Santa Claus. But this was the day God’s Real Son For Real had been born, so Dave figured God was probably in a good mood. And it was *really* cold outside. It wouldn’t *hurt* to maybe ask God for a little help? A Christmas gift? Maybe? Dave shivered. It was worth a shot, anyway. What was the worst that could happen? God couldn’t punch him from Heaven or anything, and Dave didn’t think Pastor Collins would hit him, even if God said to.

“Dear God, ummm…” Dave bit his lip, brow furrowing. How were you supposed to talk to God? Just saying his name didn’t seem very polite. He’d never talk to his foster dads like that. Pastor Collins called him ‘father,’ but he knew God a lot better. And, no matter what Pastor Collins said, Dave didn’t really feel like he was God’s Real Kid. “Um, Mr. God? I’m David. You probably know that. Pastor Collins says we’re all your Real Kids, but I think that’s kind of silly. And I know you probably don’t help out kids like me much. I mean, my own Pops don’t even like me, so why should you?”

He laughed, smiling a little. It was kind of fun talking to God.

“But I was hoping maybe you could help me out? See I know you, like, lived on the other side of the world where it gets really hot and you gotta wear towels on your head. I guess because your hair sweats? But it’s kind of cold where I live and I don’t got no coat and I don’t got no money and I don’t got no food and I don’t got no place to go. See, my real dad went away somewhere and he’s not back yet. I promise I’m not just asking to be greedy. You don’t gotta get me a Ninja Turtle or a watch or even some socks. But I could really use a coat. Not to look cool or anything, but ‘cause I’m cold. It could even be an ugly coat. I promise I’ll never leave it at home anymore. I’ll wear it even if Noah says it looks dumb. And I’m sorry for all the Noah’s ark jokes I made about him. I shouldn’t make fun of your flood thing. So if you could help me out? That would be really awesome. I really am sorry for being such a bad kid, so it wouldn’t be against the rules to help me, right? Maybe? Anyway, um, thanks God. Mr. God. Whatever. I mean, amen?”

Dave sat there in silence for a minute before bursting into giggles Was he insane? As if that was going to work. At least it had made him smile. If God was real, there was no way Dave Karofsky was one of his Real Kids. He was too bad. God would never help him.

“Well, hello there.”

Dave jerked at the sound, looking up. A tall, middle aged man was standing over him, smiling down at him. He was rich looking, in khakis and a nice shirt, and he had a heavy wool coat pulled over it all. Dave shivered, feeling a little jealous as he imagined himself in a coat like that. There was a nice car behind the man, some kind of sports car Toyota thing. Nice, but not too expensive. He was rich, but not rich enough that he’d be looking for high priced fucks. Because Dave knew that’s what he was looking for. He could tell, just from the way the man was looking at him. Pastor Collins from the shelter and Mr. Rob from the Boys’ Club and Reverend Lou from the Methodist church on West Road never looked at him like that. The man was here for fucks.

Christmas eve was definitely not a busy night—all the johns were home with their wives—and, combined with the weather, there was no one working the street corners. Apparently this guy had gotten desperate for holiday fucks and started searching the alleys for boys.

A small smile tugged at Dave’s lips, but he hid it quickly. Johns seemed to like it better when he played like he didn’t know what was going on. But that didn’t damper the happiness in his heart. It looked like maybe God had answered his prayers after all.

“What do you want?” he asked the man in a wary voice, as if he didn’t know. Best to feel them out, though. Figure out exactly what kind of little boy they wanted you to be so they would pay you the most. Dave was pretty young compared to a lot of the boys, even if he wasn’t exactly small, so they usually liked to think they were stealing away his innocence or whatever. As if. Dave was no dummy. He was almost eight and a half, he knew what getting fuck was. He knew how you did it and he knew you weren’t supposed to talk about it and he knew that old men paid money for it. He wasn’t sure why they paid money, ‘cause it hurt and it wasn’t fun at all, but he knew if you didn’t do it then it was really bad for the man and made him hurt down there ‘cause they were different down there than Dave was. He wasn’t stupid, but these old men always thought he was.

“Weeeell,” the man said, squatting down in front of Dave. “I was just passing by and I thought you looked pretty cold. Don’t you have a coat?”

Dave shook his head and lowered his eyes, playing shy, though he really wished they could just get the fucks stuff over with. “No, I don’t got no coat.”

“Well, where are your parents, um… what’s your name?”

Dave bit his lip. His Pops liked that. “I’m David. And I don’t got no parents. I ain’t got nobody.” His old man had told him to say that, even when Pops was in around. He said you didn’t want the johns to think there was somebody who might come after them, though Dave wasn’t really sure what anybody’s dad would go after them for.

“Oh, David,” the man murmured, reaching out to wrap an arm around his neck. Dave flinched a little, that anxious feeling he got whenever he did fucks starting to rise, but he didn’t push the man away. He knew better. Just take a deep breath. The icky feeling wouldn’t go away, but it wouldn’t be too bad when they started. He would have other stuff to think about. “That’s not good. I bet you’re freezing.”

Dave nodded, leaning toward the man a little. “Yes, sir. I’m cold. *And* hungry…” Set the bait…

“I think what you need is a hot meal and a coat.” He brushed the side of David’s face. “And I would love to help you out. In fact, I think it would be perfect, because, see, I need some help, too.”

David’s brow wrinkled as he pretended to be confused. “Whatchu need help with?” It was just pitiful, the way he smiled at him. Did these guys *really* think kids on the street didn’t know exactly what they wanted?

“Nothing much. It’s just Christmas Eve, see, and I’m all alone, and I need some kisses. We can go back to the car, go someplace warm, and you can give me some kisses.”

David somehow managed to keep from rolling his eyes. Almost eight and a half here! He wasn’t a dunce! He wanted kisses. Ha. The question was *where* did he want kisses? But he’d play along. “Just kisses? That’s all you want?”

“Yes. But these are special kisses. In a special place. So that I won’t feel all alone.” He took one of Dave’s hands in his own and gently moved it down his thigh until it was pressed against his crotch. “Kisses right there. Do you know what’s down there?”

No, he was blind as well as stupid. He knew what a man’s thing looked like. Dave nodded.

“Well, all you need to do is put your mouth on it.”

“I dunno… I don’t know how…” Such bullshit. Dave totally knew how to… to… well, he wasn’t sure exactly what the word was, but it was a kind of fucks. And he knew how to do it. People just seemed to call it a lot of things. He wasn’t even sure why people did it at all. One of the older girls who worked the corner by the Dollar Mart said it was how babies were made, ‘cause a baby was in the salty stuff that came out of a man and that, when a girl swallowed it, it got into her stomach and made a baby. If that was true, he didn’t know *why* you would do it with him, though, since he couldn’t have babies. He was pretty sure. He wasn’t really supposed to talk about the things Pops did with him at all—even with other kids that were on the street corners—and he almost never did, so he wasn’t positive. But he was pretty sure he couldn’t have babies. He guessed men just liked it and, whatever you wanted to call it—kiss fucks maybe?—he knew how to *do* it just fine. The words weren’t important if you knew how to do it. He only knew what fucks were called because he’d heard Pops talking to men about coming over for a fuck.

“It’s okay, you don’t have to be scared. I’ll show you how. Then we’ll get you a coat.” He looked down at the heavy wool coat he was wearing. “In fact, you can have this coat, then we won’t have to try and find a store that’s open. You help me and then I’ll help you. We can go through a drive thru, okay? Any drive thru you want. McDonalds, Taco Bell, KFC… you can get whatever you want.”

Not a bad deal. The coat the man had was really nice. It definitely wasn’t new but it was thick and had big pockets in front to put your hands in when it was cold. It wasn’t long, but on Dave it would cover most of him and would fit him for a long time, even with his recent crazy growing. But if he could get just a *little* more…

“I-I dunno. I’m scared.”

The man squeezed his shoulder. “No need to be scared, David. We’re just helping each other out. That’s what you do on Christmas, right? You know what? I’ll even give you some money so you can buy yourself a Christmas gift, okay?”

Forget Christmas gifts—he could buy himself some gloves! “How much money?”

“Hm… how about twenty dollars?”

Shit, that was how much he usually got for putting men’s things in his mouth. Hell, sometimes he only got ten. Getting food and a coat out of it, too? It really was Christmas.

Dave ducked his head, pretending to think about it for a moment before looking up. “Okay.”

The man smiled and stood, offering his hand to Dave. Dave climbed to his feet, following the man to his car and, when he was sure the man wasn’t looking, he let a little smile slip, glancing up at the stormy sky. Maybe he was God’s Real Kid after all.

“Thanks, Mr. God.”

 

Dave climbed into the front seat, reaching up to touch his fingers to the little gold cross. It was beautiful. They said God was beautiful. Dave didn’t figure that anyone beautiful would really want much to do with him, but it was worth a try, wasn’t it? They said the Lord worked in mysterious ways.

He remembered that Pastor Collins had been horrified when Dave had told him about God sending him a coat, almost angry even. He’d sworn that God had *not* sent that man and that gifts from God came free. That’s why they were gifts. But Dave had always thought that was bullshit. All gifts came with strings attached.

He wasn’t real sure anymore if God had actually answered his prayer that night, but it was pretty weird for some guy looking for a pedo-blow job to stumble out of nowhere on Christmas Eve. And fact was fact: He’d asked for a coat and he’d gotten a coat. So maybe it had been God. He hadn’t prayed much since then. He didn’t honestly believe he was God’s Real Kid—God wouldn’t have a Real Kid like him. But maybe God was like a really good foster dad, one that really cared. As long as you didn’t ask for too much, he’d be there when you *really* needed it. He’d never tried to hurt Dave, anyway. Dave knew people liked to blame God for every bad thing in their lives, but they just needed to suck it up and admit that they caused their own problems.

If anytime was a good time to call on his supernatural foster dad, this was it, wasn’t it? You couldn’t get much lower than Dave was feeling right now. It was probably foolishness, but if there was even a chance…

Dave licked his lips, swallowing hard. “Dear God,” he said, voice soft and hoarse. “I know I don’t talk to you much, so you may not remember me, but I’m Dave. David. I don’t want to ask for too much, but if you could help me out a little, now would be a good time.” A tear ran down his cheek and he quickly wiped it away, chuckling. “See what a pussy I’m being? I’m not usually like this. I can take a lot and never, ever cry. But things are pretty fucked up right now, God. Mr. God. I dunno if I can take it anymore.”

Dave ducked his head, a choked sob coming from him. “I’m so tired Mr. God. So tired of it all. The cold, the loneliness, the fear. The pain. It never gets any better, Mr. God. No matter how hard I try to make things good, all the bad stuff just comes back, over and over again.” He rubbed at his eyes. “You definitely don’t owe me anything, God. But I’d appreciate it if you could, maybe, give me a present? Christmas is just around the corner and if you could cut me a break, I’d really appreciate it. I’m just so tired, God. I can’t *do* this anymore.” He sniffed, another tear running down his cheek. “I dunno if we go anywhere after we die, Mr. God, and I kinda hope we don’t, because I’m sure not going to Heaven. But this place here, where I am, I don’t know if I can take it. So please, please, Mr. God, if there’s something you could do to help me out—anything. I’d really appreciate it. Thanks, Mr. God. Um, amen.”

Dave sat there for a moment, head bowed, then began to laugh. Was he crazy? Why in the world would God listen to him? If he was even up there, what was once fucked up kid to him? No one wanted Dave. Why would God be any different? His laughter somehow became a sob and he leaned forward, resting his head on the steering wheel, shoulders shaking as he cried. Why, why, why would God ever help him? He was just—

There was a soft sound and Dave froze. What was… He glanced around nervously, but the garage was still empty. That sound… What was it? He moved his hand and there was a jingling sound as it brushed across metal.

Dave swallowed hard, looking down slowly, his chest tight. No way. It couldn’t be… His breath caught. It was. Keys. There were keys in the car. Had they been here all along? A lump grew in his throat as he stared down at them like they were some sort of holy object.

He sniffed, one last tear rolling down his cheek, a shaky smile appearing on his face as he looked up at the cross dangling from the mirror. No more nights in the cold, no more painful memories in dirty alleys, no more broken bones or hungry stomachs. Maybe he really was God’s Real Kid.

A strange mix of fear and peace came over him, but the peace far outweighed the fear, and Dave reached out, cranking the engine to life. He let it sit for a moment, then turned the heater on full blast before climbing back into the backseat, stretching out on the seat, the warm air making him feel sleepy. He smiled once more at the cross, another tear making its way across his face.

“Thanks, Mr. God.”


	16. Oh Christmas Tree

He was so beautiful. How could anyone think that this boy was anything less than a freaking god? With aristocratically pale skin and long, limber arms and legs… His belly button was particularly cute and Dave had to resist the urge to stick his tongue in it.

“Oh, David,” Kurt moaned, arching his back.

Blood rushed into Dave’s face as the sound. So, so beautiful. God, he wanted him some of that.

When she subbed for biology, Ms. Holliday had told them that the male praying mantis had a second brain in its abdomen so that it could continue to mate as the female ate its head. The things nature would do in order to mate.

At this point, Dave was willing to do anything.

He stared down at the naked boy below him, taking in a steadying breath. He wanted so badly to press his lips to that pink mouth, to drop his body on top of the smaller boy and rut against him.

“David… please…”

That was enough for him. Dave slowly lowered himself on top of Kurt, his large, muscled legs spreading apart those slender thighs. He dropped his head down and gently slipped his tongue between Kurt’s soft lips, trailing along that pouty mouth with the tip of his tongue. It was perfection.

Dave’s hips thrust forward without his permission and he let out a small moan as his cock began to harden. “So beautiful,” he muttered, though the words really came out as more of a grunt. “Want… So bad…” He rutted against the smaller boy, his breath coming faster. So, so good…

A choked sound came from beneath Dave and he froze suddenly, breath catching as he watched a tear slide its way down Kurt’s pale cheek. “K-Kurt?” He tripped over the other boy’s name as he forced himself to ignore the throbbing between his legs. “Are… are you okay?”

Kurt turned his head to the side, staring out into the darkness as more tears made their way down his face. “Please…” His voice was hoarse and Dave shivered at the sound. “Please, no… Please, don’t… Please!” He looked back at Dave, big watery eyes meeting with the other boy’s, and Dave let out a sob at the fear in them.

“Please. Please, don’t!”

* * *

“David, wake up!”

“Oh, God, should we call an ambulance?”

“He’s supposed to be with the Hummels! If we call an ambulance, they might arrest him!”

“Better in jail than dead, Christopher!”

Dave blinked, trying to clear the blurred haze from his mind. Where the hell was he? *In* hell, maybe? No, wherever he was, it was way too soft and cushy to be hell.

“David? Are you awake? Oh, thank God!” 

Dave sat up sharply, then jerked awat as a hand came down on his shoulder, making a high pitched whining noise as he tried to focus on the figures standing over him. “Wh-where am I?”

“David, it’s just me, Christopher.”

Christoph—oh. Mr. Adams. It was Mr. Adams. And Mrs. Adams, too. And this room… this room was their living room. Dave took a deep breath. Why was he at the Adams family’s house? The Adams family. Ha. Too bad they hadn’t named Azimio Pugsley. Dave let out a sharp giggle and Mr. Adams leaned in closer, looking disturbed. He was like a black Gomez. Hahaha. Dave snickered again.

“Dave, are you okay?”

Okay? Sure, why wouldn’t he be okay? A little light headed, maybe… “Yeeeah… What am I doin’ here?”

Mr. Adams looked rather serious. “That’s a good question, Dave. I heard some noises and found you in the garage. In one of the cars.”

Dave’s brow furrowed. They’d found him in one of the cars? Why… Oh yeah. He’d gone to their garage to sleep because… because what? An image of Kurt, silky nightgown billowing around him, flashed through Dave’s mind and the boy jerked slightly. That’s right. He was supposed to have been staying with Hummel’s. But then Burt had come into the living room and… and…

A sick feeling rose in Dave’s gut. Oh, God. He was seriously fucked.

Mrs. Adams knelt down next to her husband, reaching out to lay a gentle hand on Dave’s leg. “Dave, the car was on! What if you had died?”

Then he wouldn’t have to be having this conversation. But no, it would be way too fucking easy if he had just *died.* God knew he could never catch a break.

“Look, I’m really sorry. It-it was cold outside. You weren’t supposed to even know I was there…” Until he fell asleep and didn’t wake up again. The guilt rose in his throat. How could he have done that to the Adams family, after all they had done for him?

“Mom, Dad… What’s going on?” Azimio’s sleepy voice came from the staircase and Dave flinched.

“Go back to bed, Azimio,” Mr Adams said, voice firm.

“Hey, is that Dave? What the heck are you doing here in the middle of the night? Shit, did you bust out of juvie?”

“Go to bed, Azimio!” Mr. Adams said, raising his voice slightly. “We will discuss this in the morning.”

“But—”

“No buts! Go to bed!”

Dave flinched slightly, the sound of anger in a man’s voice automatically instigating his well-oiled flight-or-fight reflex. He hadn’t heard Mr. Adams that upset since he’d found out about the whole nailing of the lawn furniture to the roof thing. If it had been Dave’s father yelling at him, he’d be preparing for a fist to the face just to get across the point, but Azimio didn’t seem perturbed. He narrowed his eyes, lips turning up in a scowl.

“I’m not some little kid you can just send to his room! What’s going on?” He moved down another few steps and Mrs. Adams stood abruptly, her face tight.

“I swear to the good Lord above, child, if you don’t get your butt back in bed this instant I will throw every video game you own in the trash and you can spend your free time reading ‘War and Peace’!”

Apparently the thought of being forced to read classic literature instead of playing Guitar Hero was enough for Azimio because the boy let out an exaggerated sigh. “Okay, okay! God, I’ll go back to bed!” He turned to head back up the stairs, glancing over his shoulder quizzically. Somehow Dave didn’t think his friend would actually be going back to sleep any time soon.

They waited in silence until he had disappeared upstairs then Mr. Adams turned back to Dave, an upset look on his face. “Dave… I am so sorry we never helped you.”

Dave’s cheeks flushed red and he ducked his head. “You helped me plenty.”

“Obviously we didn’t or you wouldn’t be here in the middle of the night wearing someone else’s clothing, having just tried to end your life in our garage!”

“What happened, honey?” Mrs. Adams said as she knelt beside him again, the sympathy in her voice so thick it was like someone had dumped a bowl of pity syrup over his head

Dave squeezed his eyes shut, trying to block out the sound. Why, why, why had he come here? The last thing he wanted was their pity. He didn’t *deserve* their pity. They just didn’t understand the kind of boy he was. If they did, he had no doubt that they’d have left him in that car. Anyone could see he was better off dead.

The sound of the doorbell ringing brought Dave back with a jolt, eyes flying open as his shoulders tensed. Had the Adams called the police?! Screw that. He was not going back to jail.

Dave sprung up without warning, ready to head out the backdoor. Mr. Adams, however, had other plans, grabbing Dave by the arm. A rush of panic swept through him and Dave acted without thinking, shoving the man hard and sending him tumbling into their beautiful flocked Christmas tree, pine needles and ornaments flying as it tipped to the side, taking Mr. Adams with it.

The sight of it made Dave pause just long enough for Mrs. Adams to practically wrap her arms around him, holding him tight. “Dave! Please, Dave, it’s okay! It’s okay! It’s only the door! Please, Dave, don’t run away, sweetie!”

The words were useless, however. The sight of the Adams’ perfect, wonderful tree laying in a heap was more than enough to trigger Dave into flight, his big hands easily pushing Mrs. Adams’ arms aside. He needed to get away from them before he ruined everything more. Because this was what he did. He ruined things. It was all he did. He was a ruiner. He’d ruined his family, he’d ruined his life. And now, for the second time, he had ruined the Adams’ perfect Christmas tree. He’d taken nine feet of perfectly shaped pine that rose up toward their arched ceilings and brought it down, the candy colored lights that blinked so merrily cutting off as the cord was yanked from the wall. Shards of glass from chubby little angels and pretty bells and porcelain Santas with fully bellies and bright grins scattered across their marble floor and the star on top cracked on impact, the simple bulb inside now peeking through its fractured side. 

And Mr. Adams lay in the middle of it all, pushing himself to his feet, water from the live tree’s dish staining the silk pajama bottoms that probably cost more than Dave’s entire wardrobe. And for an instant, just an instant, Dave hated them, just as much as he’d hated them the first time he’d toppled their cheery, perfect tree. Hated them with all his heart for *having* something left to ruin. Then, with tears rising up in his eyes, he turned to run.

 

It was, as always, amazing, the essence of Christmas at high cost. Of course, their house was amazing anytime, minus the holiday additions. It looked like someone had picked up a couple of rooms from the White House and dropped them in the middle of Lima, what with the arched ceilings and marble floor.

Just the entry was was big enough to host a damn party in, and the enormous “family room”—not to be confused with the equally gigantic “living room” where guests were hosted—could have held a gym or two. Thick, colorful carpets from some country Dave could never remember kept the room from feeling cold and the furniture scattered about definitely wasn’t from IKEA. The house was always beautiful. But at Christmas… At Christmas it was just magnificent.

Dave’s Pops’ only concession to Christmastime was the occasional drop of eggnog in his liquor and some nasty jokes about kissing cock under the mistletoe, but Dave had spent a couple of Christmases with foster parents and even those chipper, middle class homes didn’t have a thing on the Adams’ house. How could any tree picked up at the Home Depot compare to the mammoth they, as a family, went and picked out from a forest filled with five hundred dollar pines ready to be cut down before their eyes (after taking a few whacks themselves with an old fashioned ax, just for a bit of seasonal fun)? How could lights purchased at Big Lots and a mish mash of WalMart lawn decorations even be considered in the same class as the wonderland of flickering beauty that was Azimio’s front yard, with Santa landing on the roof in his lighted sleigh as animatronic elves danced in the front yard?

It was truly glorious. And it really pissed Dave off.

Dave hated Christmas. A time of giving, a time of cheer, a time of love. Fucking bullshit. It was a time for greedy rich people to buy themselves a truck load of shit they didn’t need while he sat hungry on a cold street corner. A time for Real Kids to rip open packages full of Transformers and game systems and bicycles and Power Rangers while he sat just outside the living room and listened, the occasional peek around the corner all he dared. After all, no one wanted the foster kid in their precious Christmas pictures. Christmas was just a time for his Pops to go from being drunk eighteen hours a day to a full twenty-four as he dealt with the memories it raised of his own hellish childhood with the grandfather Dave *never* wanted to meet, if the things his old man muttered about him in his sleep were even close to true.

Joy to the world his ass. Christmas brought a lot of things to his life, but joy wasn’t one of them.

Dave gritted his teeth, forcing his depressed thoughts away, and sipped at the warm cocoa, taking great pleasure at the feel of warmth radiating from it. Spending winter nights on the street gave one a new appreciation for heat.

“Oh, come one! Do you expect me to drive a piece of crap like that?!” Azimio leaned forward in his chair, glaring angrily at his father who was seated on the sofa directly across from him, a cup of tea in one hand, the other laced through his wife’s. “It’s not like a want a freaking Lamborghini! Just a Corvette! Half the school drives Mustangs! It’s ghetto, Dad!”

“You are fifteen years old, Azimio,” Mr. Adams said calmly, though Dave thought he saw a bit of amusement in his eyes. “You don’t even have your license yet. I think a Ford Mustang is pricy enough for someone who still can’t parallel park.”

Azimio snorted loudly. “Nobody knows how to parallel park. It’s stupid. That’s what parking spaces are *for.* And I want a Corvette!”

Dave took another drink of the thick, sweet liquid in attempt to hide his disgust. Azimio was his boy, but sometimes he just pissed him off. A fucking Mustang—probably a goddamn convertible with a supercharged engine or some shit—was ghetto? Then what was the dirty bus that smelled like old socks and chewing tobacco that Dave rode across town in every morning? He couldn’t even come up with a humorous metaphor because seriously, what was something that far below a Ford Mustang if the Mustang was ghetto? A dump truck full of horse shit?

“You know what?” Mrs. Adams said suddenly, her high, cheerful voice breaking through Azimio’s tirade. “I think someone has forgotten the reason for the season.” She shook her head, clucking in disapproval, though her gentle face still seemed sweet to Dave. “I think maybe we should go around the room and each share a memory of Christmas that truly touched us.” She held up a finger, wiggling it at Azimio like he was a naughty little boy, a smile on her face. “And I don’t mean the time Grammers and Gramps got you the pirate ship clubhouse when you were seven or when Aunty Annie got you that rock climbing wall when you were nine. I mean something that really reminds us of what Christmas is all about. Azimio, how about you start?” She leaned her head against Mr. Adams’ shoulder and he wrapped and arm around her, cuddling her close.

Dave’s mom and dad had never held each other like that. Well, unless his Pops was trying to rape her.

Azimio made a rude noise. “Oh, c’mon. This is so stupid. We’re doing this shit why, exactly?”

“Azimio,” Mrs. Adams said, a warning tone in her voice. “Watch your language.”

Dave grabbed a handful of tiny marshmallows out of the bag on the table, resisting the urge to just stuff them all in his mouth at once. “For God’s sake, Azimio! How tough can it be to come up with a happy Christmas memory? Look at this freaking house.” He didn’t even realize he’d spoken aloud until Azimio glared at him, eyes narrowing. DWoops.

“Okay then, Mr. Christmas Spirit,” the boy snapped back. “How ‘bout you go first in the show and tell it all while I sit back and decide what I’m gonna name my ‘Vette.” Azimio smirked as Dave’s face reddened.

“Uh, I didn’t mean—”

“Yes, Dave,” Mrs. Adams broke in, smiling her too-kind smile. It was the sort of smile Dave wouldn’t trust for a second if he hadn’t known her for so long. He still didn’t always trust it, in fact. It just seemed impossible for someone to really be that open, that sweet. “Why don’t you show our impossible son how it’s done?”

Dave swallowed hard, his pulse speeding up a little. What was he supposed to tell them? That he was no good for playing up the ‘reason for the season’ gag since he’d never had a truly happy Christmas in his entire life? That the word ‘Christmas’ just made his chest fill with a sort of empty ache? That he couldn’t even come up with a decent lie because just imagining a happy Christmastime was beyond him? What was he supposed to do? His pulse sped up a little more as he looked into Mr. and Mrs. Adams’ expectant eyes. What could he say? What could possibly—

Dave’s fingers tightened on the little marshmallows and, suddenly, a memory flooded him, tightening his throat and sending a warm feeling rushing over him. That. He could tell them that. He would have to edit it for his audience, of course, but it would fit the bill.

“You know that my family… We don’t have a lot of money.” An understatement of gargantuan proportions, but Mrs. Adams just smiled, Azimio glancing up from his car magazine just long enough to nod in Dave’s direction, obviously not giving a damn. The Adams were too rich to have a problem with associating with the poor. Ninety-nine percent of the population of America was considered poor next to them.

Dave dropped the handful of marshmallows into his cup, staring down at the colorful little dots for a moment before taking a sip, stalling for no real reason other than he really, really didn’t like talking about himself.

“It was Christmastime but my dad had just been laid off and money was tighter than ever.” More like his dad had doubled his liquor intake to celebrate the season while the cold weather combined with the business of Christmas has shrunk Dave’s clientele down to next to nothing. “We didn’t always have enough to eat, in fact, and would have to go stand in line at the shelters, which are always packed in the winter.”

“Oh my goodness,” Mrs. Adams said quietly, touching a hand to her chest.

Dave took another sip of his hot chocolate, avoiding the pity in those pretty brown eyes. He didn’t deserve her pity. He was a liar and a fake. He would bet his boots that if she knew what kind of family he *really* came from she wouldn’t be so distraught.

“Anyway, obviously most of the stuff we ate tasted like sawdust. But there was this bakery a few blocks from my house and I had to walk past it to get to the bus station. It just smelled so good, I couldn’t help but go in. And so I did. In fact, I went in every day, just to sit on the little bench where people waited for their cakes and take in the smell.”

Azimio tossed his car magazine carelessly on the floor, raising an eyebrow. “You went to smell cookies everyday?”

Dave shrugged. “School was out for Christmas, and it wasn’t like I had anything better to do. You know I didn’t have a lot of friends before you moved here, man.” He swallowed down another sip of hot chocolate, the sweet taste reminding him of the sensuous smells coming from the back of the bakery. Azimio didn’t understand. He had never gone hungry. Dave loved those smells like the other boy loved titties. He could practically get a hard on for a brownie or a piece of red velvet cake. Hell, even baking bread made him drool.

“Anyway, Mrs. P, the lady who owned the bakery didn’t seem to mind. I’m not sure she even noticed me, really. She had a lot of customers and she did everything in that store, from making the bread to frosting the cakes to ringing up sales. But as Christmas got closer, more and more people started ordering cakes and stuff. Mrs. P didn’t have time to make everything and run the register anymore, so she hired this guy.” A frown came over Dave’s face. “He didn’t like me, even though I just sat there. So one day he chased me out, saying that if I ever came back it had better be to buy something or he’d call the police.”

“That is so rude,” Mrs. Adams murmured, apparently shocked by the idea that someone might not want some poor kid hanging out in their shop. Dave gave her a small smile. Azimio wasn’t the only one who was sheltered in this family.

“But I couldn’t stay away. I missed it too much. There was no way that man was going to let me back in the store, though, so I decided to hang out in the alley. There was a back door that led right to the kitchen and you could smell the cookies baking. That was where I found out Mrs. P wasn’t a perfect baker—that sometimes she burned a batch and threw them in the trash.”

Dave took a deep breath, staring down into his cup, not wanting to imagine what Azimio might think of his next words. “So I decided to get them out of the trash and eat them.”

Mr. Adams’ mouth actually dropped open as Azimio made a disgusted face.

“Dude, that is so gross.”

“You ate out of the *trash*, David?”

“Oh my goodness, you poor child!”

Dave actually had to hold back a bitter laugh as he forced his mouth in to a deprecating smile. He’d eaten out of trashcans a thousand times before that day at the bakery, but the Adams didn’t need to know that. “Yeah, that’s probably how my old ma—how my dad would have reacted too if he’d ever found out.” Ha. Like his Pops gave a shit whether or not he was eating out of a Dumpster. He’d just say that’s what rats do. “But like I said, we were really starved for food—no pun intended-and for a taste of Mrs. P’s snickerdoodles… I guess I was willing to risk ebola or whatever. But just as I was shoving that first cookie into my mouth, the door to the bakery swung open and there was Mrs. P with an old flour sack full of trash.”

Dave would never forget that day. The snow falling lightly, catching on his eyelashes. His fingers, unprotected by the pair of socks he’d made into makeshift gloves, so cold that it was difficult just to grasp the cookie. The way he’d tried to duck behind the trashcan before she saw him—a silly gesture, really, considering that his shoulders were way too wide for hiding behind bins, even at that young age. The sinking feeling he’d felt when her eyes had latched on to his, sure that he was going to have to make a run for it, losing forever his chance at the little pile of cookies he’d dropped as he scuttled to hide. The way a gentle smile had bloomed across the old woman’s face as she moved over next to Dave and crouched down in the dirty snow next to him.

“I thought she would chase me off. But instead she invited me to come inside. It was cold and I was so desperate to smell her cookies again that I did. I tried to pick up the ones I’d dropped when she surprised me to save for later, but Mrs. P wouldn’t let me. She took me into the kitchen and sat me down and put a plate full of cookies fresh out of the oven in front of me. And when it was obvious I felt guilty about eating then, she just started babbling something about always making a baker’s dozen and that I was just the perfect taste tester, someone to make sure her cookies were always good.” He laughed, shaking his head. “They were more than good, though, they were wonderful. But that was when the guy from the register came in. He took one look at me and started ranting to Mrs. P about how I came into the shop and scared off customers and took all the samples.” Dave let out a small chuckle. “I hadn’t even realized that the plate of cookies sitting on the counter *were* samples. And I sure as hell had never eaten one. Anyway, while they were talking I ran off.” He swished his cup, staring down at the marshmallows. “But my stomach wouldn’t let me stay away. And when I came back, the man from the register was gone and Mrs. P hired me to help her carry flour sacks and knead dough during the busy Christmastime. It was just enough money to help my family get by and I got all the cookies I wanted.” Just enough money to keep him from having to stand for hours in the cold hoping that some strange man would come by and pick him up for the night, that is. “It was the best Christmas gift I’d ever gotten.” Of course he *didn’t* tell them that, when the Christmas season was over and his Pops had woken up enough from his drunken stupor to demand more cash than Dave’s ten minutes as a baker could provide, he’d stolen all the cash in Mrs. P’s register and never gone back.

“Oh, Dave, that’s so sweet,” Mrs. Adams’ said, her eyes actually shining with tears for him, unaware that it was Mrs. P, the kind old lady he’d betrayed to help a man who beat him and fucked him and pimped him out, that she should be crying for. Dave had passed by the empty hole where her bakery had been not too long ago and it was obvious Mrs. Sweet P’s Cakes and Cookies had been closed for years. Okay, yeah, she could have retired, being so old and all, and the neighborhood was a total wasteland anyway—most of the shops on that street had closed down. But Dave couldn’t quite shake the feeling that he’d been the one to ruin her wonderful little store.

“So she gave you a couple of cookies,” Azimio said, looking bored. “Woo-hoo. What a *saint*. If I saw some kid eating out of trash cans, I’d give him a bag of Oreos, too. What, exactly, if may I ask, does this have to do with the Corvette Santa is going to be delivering me for Christmas?” He patted his rather wide stomach. “I got plenty of dough. I don’t need no cookies. What I need is a little vroom-vroom. Cookies are for Santa. Cars are for the Az-man.” Azimio grinned widely at Dave. “Ain’t that right, D-man?”

In that moment Dave hated Azimio, more than he had ever hated anyone before. More than his Pops, more than his mom, more than the assholes who paid to use him like a fucking toy. Maybe even more than he hated himself. And that was saying a lot. How, how, *how* could Azimio just sit there, talking about fancy fucking sport cars, knowing that Dave had been hungry enough to eat burned cookies from a trash can? And why, why, *why* did he have so much when Dave had absolutely nothing? What the hell had Azimio done to deserve to live in his fancy house with his fancy stuff and his perfect parents? Why did he get the most amazing tree ever, every year, when Dave didn’t even get one the size of Charlie Brown’s stupid Christmas branch? And, most of all, why the fuck didn’t he appreciate it?

Dave wasn’t really sure what happened next. One minute he was sitting in a chair watching Azimio wave his car magazines around and the next he was on his feet, his big arms wrapping around their fancy, perfect, wonderful tree, letting out a grunt as he sent it toppling to the floor.

It was Mrs. Adams’ scream that brought him back to himself, breath coming hard and fast as he stared down at the wreckage that had been the Adams’ Christmas tree. 

Oh, God. What had he done? Dave took off for the door, trying to hold back the tears as Azimio screamed cuss words at him and Mr. Adams called out his name.

Just another Christmas season. The most wonderful time of the year.

 

“David Karofsky, I swear to God, if you don’t stop running and get back in this house, I will follow you in my bare feet all the way to hell!”

Dave flinched as Mrs. Adams’ voice rang out across their expansive backyard. He paused in his attempt to hop their fence into the neighbor’s yard just long enough to glance over his shoulder and see that she was, in fact, standing out in the snow in her bare feet, shivering. She may have had cheerful penguins printed all over her pajamas, but she was definitely not dressed for the cold. And Dave had no doubt that she would, in fact, follow him. Mrs. Adams was incredibly sweet, but she was also incredibly strong willed. A wave of guilt washed over him. He’d already ruined her sleep and her beautiful tree. Making her freeze as well just didn’t seem fair. But going back inside didn’t seem like such a great idea, either. He’d just knocked over her husband and destroyed her decorations. Somehow he didn’t think anything good awaited him inside.

The first time he’d knocked over their tree Azimio had literally made him get down on his knees and beg forgiveness before he’d even speak to him. Mr. and Mrs. Adams hadn’t actually ever spoken to him about it themselves, but he was sure that they’d been plenty furious as well. Now he’d done it again, and maybe hurt Mr. Adams, too. He had no idea what they would do to him, and that was scary in itself. Maybe even scarier than his Pops’ fists. Then, at least, he would know what was coming.

Dave swallowed hard as Mrs. Adams began to make her way through the snow, a determined look on her face despite the fact that she was visibly shaking from the cold. This was horrible.

Dave dropped down off the fence, landing in the snow with a soft thud. “I’m coming. I’m coming. Please, get out of the snow!”

Mrs. Adams didn’t head back to the house but at least she stopped, waiting silently as Dave approached her, his shoulders hunched and his eyes steadily on the ground.

“Oh David,” she whispered, her cold fingertips brushing his even colder face. “Come on, sweetie. Let’s go inside.”

Dave used his shoulder to awkwardly wipe away the tears running down his cheeks. When had he become such a cry baby? It was like his emotions had been going crazy ever since that horrible day in the locker room with Finn. One second he he’d be furious, the next he’d be crying… There had even been a couple of moments where he’d almost been happy. It had been so much easier before all of this. Before Kurt had butted into his life, before the Adams had found out the truth about him. Now everything was falling apart and Dave had no idea what to do about.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered miserably as he and Mrs. Adams started to shuffle back toward the house. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Adams. I’m so sorry. I ruined your tree again. I’m so, so sorry.”

“It’s okay, Dave,” she said gently. “It’s just a tree, okay? Just a stupid tree. Honestly, I don’t give a damn about it. I’m much more worried about you.”

More worried about him? Somehow that didn’t seem right. That Christmas tree was theirs. It belonged to their family and it was pretty and important. And what was he? Just some stupid kid. The tree had probably cost more than he could make on his best day. He knew for damn sure that his Pops wouldn’t have been more worried about him. He’d have been pissed over the tree for sure. And his foster families? If he’d ruined their tree they wouldn’t have been worried about his feelings. They’d have been worried about making sure he hadn’t slipped anything that belonged to them in his pocket when they tossed him out on the curb. Did Mrs. Adams really think he was worth more than their tree? Because, based on past experiences, he was pretty sure that he wasn’t.

Dave took a deep breath as Mrs. Adams gestured him back through the door. The heat on his cold skin should have been a relief, but he was too wired about what was to come to enjoy it. Had it been the police at the door? Were they waiting to arrest him? Would he be charged with assault for pushing Mr. Adams into the tree? And if it hadn’t been the cops at the door, what would Mr. Adams do to him? That thought almost scared him more than the idea of being arrested. At least there were rules there. He knew how cops worked, just like he knew how his Pops worked. But Mr. Adams… Mr. Adams was so much more confusing. Like Kurt’s dad on the sofa. Because nothing terrified Dave more than not knowing how the mind of someone with so much power over him worked. 

Would Mr. Adams make him beg like Azimio had? If so, that was fine. Dave knew how to beg. He had plenty of experience, after all. But somehow he didn’t think begging was going to be enough.

Dave steeled himself as he stepped through the door, readying himself for anything from blue cop uniforms to Mr. Adams’ fist… but what he didn’t expect was to see was Kurt Hummel sitting on the couch, his legs drawn up to his chest and his face pale.

There was a moment of silence as their eyes met then Kurt sprung up from his seat, rushing toward Dave. “Oh my God, Dave, you’re okay!”

He flinched as the smaller boy collided into him, forcing himself to take steadying breaths as those thin arms wrapped around his neck. It was fine. He was fine. It was just Kurt. He could throw the little princess off of him with a flick of the finger.

After a moment he managed to choke out, “Kurt… Wh-what are you doing here?”

Kurt raised his head from where it had been buried in Dave’s stolen sweatshirt, tears shining in his eyes, a look of disbelief on his face. “Looking for you, obviously! I have been so worried! Why in the world did you run off?”

Dave swallowed hard. How could he ever hope to explain? How could Kurt, so innocent and nice, ever understand what kind of a burden Dave was on people? How he messed up everything he touched. How he destroyed people’s lives without even trying. He couldn’t. Kurt would never be able to understand because he was blind to what Dave was. He was just too nice for his own good.

Dave gently pulled away from the other boy, wrapping his arms back around himself as his eyes slowly scanned the carnage left by his unexpected attack on the Christmas tree. God, it looked even worse now that they’d started to sweep up the glass. Just lying there, the once perfect branches now twisted in strange directions, pine needles everywhere.

“Oh my God… What happened?”

Dave froze, his shoulders tensing at the quiet voice coming from behind him. He turned slowly to face Azimio who was standing on the stairs again, gripping tightly at the rail. Dave flinched as his eyes met his friend’s and dropped his head, waiting for the angry shouting to begin. Waiting. And waiting. Then flinching as he felt a hand come down on his shoulder.

“Dave, man… Are you okay?”

Pain surged through Dave’s chest as he looked up into Azimio’s concerned eyes. “I… I’m sorry. So sorry. So, so, so, so, so sorry—”

“Dave, stop it. It’s okay.” Azimio glanced over at his parents. “What the fuck is going on here?”

“Language, Azimio,” Mrs. Adams said quietly, though it was obvious her heart wasn’t in it.

Azimio shook his head in obvious frustration. “What the hell is Hummel doing here? What the hell is *Dave* doing here? God, will somebody tell me what is going on?!”

“Maybe we should all sit down and talk.”

Dave’s heart sped up at the sound of Mr. Adams’ voice behind him and he stumbled a little as he tried to simultaneously turn around and back away. The man hadn’t been in the room when he’d walked in. He must have been carting off some of the broken glass. Dave didn’t usually wish for his old man, but at that moment he would have taken his Pops faithful fists over whatever was happening any day. All of this… it was just too confusing. He had no idea what was going through the heads of any of these people. And every time he finally thought he’d figured it out, something would change. It was just exhausting.

“I think that’s a good idea,” Mrs. Adams said, softly but firmly as she gently maneuvered Dave toward the couch. “Azimio, why don’t you go make us some hot chocolate.”

Azimio frowned. “But I want to—”

“Azimio,” she said, raising an eyebrow at him. “Hot chocolate. Now. Then we’ll *all* talk, okay?”

The boy scowled for a moment then let out a sigh and shuffled toward the kitchen, muttering something under his breath about women thinking they ruled the world.

Mr. Adams started to sit down next to Dave on the sofa, but quietly moved to another chair when Dave couldn’t keep himself from jerking away. He didn’t protest when Mrs. Adams sat next to him, however. In fact, her small hands wrapped around his almost made him feel almost safe. It was not a common feeling for him.

They all sat in silence for a moment, the only sound Kurt’s little sniffles as he leaned into his dad’s chest, obviously taking comfort in the man’s arms. It still seemed so very strange.

“Okay,” Mr. Adams said finally, causing Dave to flinch again. “I honestly can’t think of an easy way to get into all this. So I’m just going to try and sum up what I understand about what happened tonight, then we can try and fill in the blanks, okay, Dave?”

Dave swallowed hard then gave a short nod, staring pointedly at the floor. What choice did he have?

“Okay, good.” Mr. Adams nodded in Burt’s direction. “This is what I understand. You and Kurt were released from detention under Burt’s care. You and he had an incident and you ran away, ending up at our house. But you, for some reason, chose to break into the garage rather than wake us.” He paused. “Is this correct so far?”

Dave took a deep breath then nodded again, still refusing to even look in Mr. Adams’ direction.

“Okay, good. Now, I don’t want to assume anything, David, as I know it’s very cold outside and I’m sure a warm car seemed like a godsend. But I have to ask. When you turned on the car and fell asleep in the back… Were you just trying to get warm or were you trying—” 

He cut off abruptly and Dave snuck a glance at the man, brow furrowing in confusion as Mr. Adams used the edge of his pajama top to wipe away tears on his cheeks. Why was he crying? Was he crying because he was angry at what Dave did? Because he’d trusted Dave and Dave had betrayed him? A sick feeling began to grow in his gut as his mind tried to lay out all the possible reasons for Mr. Adams’ tears. Mrs. Adams’ hands squeezed Dave’s a little tighter.

The man cleared his throat and sat up very straight, obviously trying to collect himself. “Okay. Were you just trying to get warm tonight, Dave, or were you trying to,” his voice cracked strangely, but he pressed on, “or were you trying to kill yourself?”

A strange sound came from Kurt, almost like a kitten mewing, as the boy shot off the couch he was sharing with his father and practically landed on Dave, wrapping his arms around him. Dave didn’t even have time to feel surprised before Kurt was sobbing against him. “Oh my God, you didn’t try and kill yourself, did you Dave?” Kurt pulled back just enough to look at Dave, his blue eyes searching.

There was a long moment where they just stared at one another then Dave looked away. This was apparently answer enough for everyone because Kurt was buried against him again and Mrs. Adams’ hand was squeezing Dave’s so hard he was pretty sure it was cutting off his circulation. And Mr. Adams… Mr. Adams had tears rolling down his cheeks again.

Dave had never felt so confused in his life. This… this was insane. Everything lately was insane. What had happened to his simple, shitty life? When had it gotten so complicated that he couldn’t even keep up? Finally, unable to stand it anymore, Dave burst out, “Why is everyone so upset?!”

Kurt’s sobs cut off abruptly as he leaned back to stare at him in disbelief. “Because you tried to kill yourself, David!”

“So?” Dave tugged his hands free of Mrs. Adams’ vice like grip and shoved at Kurt. Considering that the boy was wrapped around him like a vine, he didn’t get very far. But at least he was no longer sitting on his lap. “Don’t you think that it would just be better for everyone?” He gestured vaguely around the room. “Look at all the shit I’ve caused in one night! I got caught sucking off a guard, I ate all your food, I freaked out your dad, I stole a bunch of clothes from some lady’s house, I ruined a Christmas tree, and I got everybody all upset. It’s all my fault!” He choked slightly. “As if fucking up my own life at every turn isn’t bad enough, I got to fuck up everyone else’s?! I’m just sick of it, okay? It hurts! It all hurts. Every moment of every single day hurts like some guy is fucking me up the ass, okay? There isn’t a fucking second of my life that doesn’t hurt!” 

Dave let out a choked sob as he gestured toward the ruined Christmas tree. “I feel so bad for ruining your tree, but it hurt just as bad when it was there, all perfect, fucking laughing at me and my shit life! I go through every single goddamn day just trying to survive and it’s so much work and so much pain… maybe it’s just not worth it anymore! Maybe I’m tired of going hungry, of being cold, of trying so hard to make someone love me and never, ever succeeding! Maybe I just want it all to end! Maybe I just—” The tears began to flow faster and Dave bent forward, trying to hide his face as the sobs made his shoulders shake. “M-maybe I just want to die now! Maybe… maybe I just want it to end.”


	17. Sorry Isn't Good Enough

How could someone so big manage to look so very small?

The question lingered in Kurt’s mind as he wrapped his arms more tightly around Dave’s neck. Maybe straddling the boy’s lap wasn’t the most elegant of positions—or the most appropriate—but he sure as hell wasn’t going to let go. Not after the words Dave had just uttered.

“Kursh, you’rsh smushin’ me,” Dave managed to mumble, the words stifled by Kurt’s chest pressed against his face as Kurt held the boy’s head close against him.

“Sheriously, man, I canna breathe.”

Kurt sniffled, blinking rapidly in an attempt to clear up some of the tears before finally giving in, releasing his hold slightly. He didn’t want to kill the boy, after all. Even if the boy apparently wanted to kill himself. Oh, God. Just the thought brought a new tsunami of tears. And the Superclutch Hold was back. He was never letting Dave go.

“Kurt, why don’t you sit down on the other side of Dave?” Mrs. Adams said in a soft voice, reaching out to touch Kurt gently on the shoulder. “So that we can talk, okay honey? You can still hold his hand.”

Kurt swallowed deeply, digging his fingers into Dave’s broad back. He didn’t want to let go. If he let go, Dave might get away and, if he got away, he might find a way to finish what he’d started. And then he’d be away forever and Kurt would never get the chance to see him again. There were way too many uses of the word ‘away’ in that equation for Kurt to loosen his hold even a bit.

“Kurt, we need to talk to Dave, son, and it’s kind of hard to do that when you’ve got a monkey hold on him.” His dad’s voice was deep and calm—how could he manage to be so calm?!—but he was right. They *did* need to talk to Dave. Kurt couldn’t hold on to him forever, after all. He could try, of course, but one day Dave would slip away and be free to drive off a bridge or starve himself in a desert or throw himself in front of a train or go swimming with a shark or mix plaids with polka dots in Paris… the possibilities were endless, really.

Kurt took a steadying breath, releasing his hold on Dave so that he could slide off his lap, settling down on the couch beside him. Maybe he couldn’t wrap around him like a tentacle, but at least he could still hold his hand.

Dave, however, was apparently not interested in holding hands, because he quickly slipped them between his knees, clenching them between his legs and effectively putting those big hands, so in need of holding, far from Kurt’s grasp.

Feeling a little shunned, Kurt pressed up against the boy as much as possible, trying to ignore the way Dave sort of flinched away. The boy was tired and scared, that was all. It wasn’t like he didn’t want Kurt around or anything silly like that. They were cellmates, among other things, even if those “other things” were difficult to define, or even pin down.

“Okay, Dave,” Mrs. Adams said, her voice almost as annoyingly calm as Kurt’s father’s had been. Kurt knew they were both trying to be strong for Dave, holding in their emotions so that they could all speak reasonably, but it still felt absurd to be acting so normal when something so bad had almost happened. 

“First thing’s first. Azimio will be back in this room in a minute. I understand if you don’t want to speak in front of him, and it is your choice. If you want this to be a private conversation between us and the Hummels, we will send Azimio back to his bedroom.”

Dave snorted, looking for a second like the boy Kurt knew from school, all bad attitude, spouting the Neanderthal version of sass. “Yeah, like that will ever happen. Azimio didn’t wipe his butt after pooping for a week just ‘cause that OCD counselor chick got on to him about not washing his hands after going Number Two. Tell ‘Z what to do doesn’t usually end well.”

Kurt couldn’t help but smirk a little at the grossed out look on Mrs. Adams’ face. Good to know that he wasn’t the only one in the world who found bathroom humor less than amusing.

“We will make it happen, David,” Mr. Adams said firmly, his voice confident. It was the sort of voice you wanted to believe, no matter what your doubts were. The politician in him was showing. “Believe it or not, we do have some facsimile of control over our son. We need to talk and I want you to be one hundred percent comfortable when doing so. If that means sending Azimio to his bedroom, that’s what we’ll do.”

Dave swallowed hard, eyes flickering rapidly from Mr. Adams’ face to the door Azimo had stormed out of when his parents asked him to make hot chocolate. Finally he spoke, voice low. “Please. I… I don’t want him to see me like this.”

Mr. Adams nodded shortly, giving the boy a comforting smile. “I understand. I’ll go sort things out with him and then we’ll talk, okay?”

Dave nodded dully, his eyes now locked on the floor.

Kurt squeezed his hands together as Mr. Adams headed for the kitchen, wishing badly that he could take the obviously broken boy in his arms. It was hard to believe that this was the same exact person who’d been storming the halls of McKinley like a battleship only a few days ago. 

The scariest part was that this damage wasn’t new. The scars Dave was wearing were old, some *very* old, yet none of them had noticed a thing. The boy from a few days ago was this same exact boy, just as broken, just as sad. Yet somehow Dave had managed to hide it from everyone. How was that even possible? How could he have gone on every day pretending that he wasn’t hurting, putting on a front for the world, when he was so obviously aching inside? It couldn’t have been easy. Kurt wondered what it had cost him.

“You know, Dave,” his dad said gently, “the same goes for Kurt, too, or even myself. No one has to be here if you don’t want them to be.”

“What?” Kurt practically squawked as he turned a betrayed look on his father. “You can’t send me away!”

“Kurt,” his dad said soothingly, not that Kurt was about to be soothed over this, “I’m looking out for Dave here—“

“It’s okay, Mr. Hummel,” Dave interrupted, his voice disturbingly emotionless. “Kurt can stay. I don’t care. He knows too much anyway.”

He knows too much. That was an interesting way to phrase it. Knows too much for what? For Dave’s little act to hold up? For Dave to care what Kurt thought? Or something more insidious… like knowing too much for *Kurt* to care about *him*? It was obvious Dave was used to people not caring, after all.

Kurt tried again for Dave’s hand and, this time, the boy let him take it. A small smile bloomed on Kurt’s lips as he traced the rough skin, running his fingertips lightly along those big knuckles.

The hand was jerked away a moment later, however, as Azimio and his dad came through the doorway. Kurt glanced over, watching as a blush began to rise on Dave’s neck, spreading slowly to his face as he avoided his best friend’s eyes with a skill that spoke of a lot of practice in avoiding confrontation.

Strange, considering that the Dave that Kurt used to know, or thought he knew, would have welcomed any confrontation. Any reason to throw a punch, right?

Azimio was wearing a deep frown, but apparently his father had managed to get through to him, unwiped butts aside, because he was headed toward the winding staircase leading to the second story. He paused for a moment at the first step, glancing back at his friend. “So, uh, I guess I’ll see ya in the morning, bro?” He hesitated, obviously hoping for some sort of response. Dave just sat there, kind of staring at the floor, and Azimio forced a smile on his face. “Okay. Yeah. G’night.”

“Good night, Azimio,” Mr. Adams said in a voice that managed to be kind yet convey very clearly that Azimio needed to get his ass up the stairs.

They fell back into silence as they all sort of sat there. The tension seemed to be growing with every second as the elephant in the room stared down at the hot mug Mrs. Adams had placed in his hands. Obviously Dave was not going to be the first to talk. 

Kurt took a steadying breath, brain working madly as he tried to figure out what, exactly, to say. Seriously, Ms. Manners was completely useless these days. What was he supposed to say? “Hey, well, so, heard you tried to kill yourself. I take it the hundreds of physical, mental, and sexual assaults throughout your life had something to do with it? Oh, it’s thousands, is it? Well, that makes even more sense! So… Wanna chat about it?”

Yeah. Somehow Kurt didn’t think that would go over well. Unfortunately, from the looks on everyone’s faces, they were drawing a blank as well.

Kurt was about to make a lame joke involving his beauty sleep, just to break the ice, when Dave spoke up.

“So. I guess you want to know what’s wrong with me.” The tone was bored, sullen even. Over the last two days, Kurt had heard Dave sound angry, scared, sad, desperate, and even somewhat happy. But this dry carelessness reminded Kurt not of the Dave he’d come to know, but of the bully back at school who really didn’t give a shit about anything but hassling Gleeks and smelling his own farts. It was like one Dave, so full of anger and sadness and pain, had been replaced by another Dave. A less complicated Dave, a less emotional Dave, a less *real* Dave. 

Which, Kurt realized after a second, was probably exactly what had happened. All these pains and heartaches were new to Kurt—he hadn’t even had a clue about the extent of Dave’s pain—but they were old to Dave. Whatever had pushed him over the edge tonight, made him turn on that car in a closed garage… It wasn’t the norm. Hell, it was probably all the emotions Kurt had wrung out of the boy that had made him take that final leap. After all, Dave had managed to keep it together for sixteen years, relatively speaking.

Guilt rose in Kurt’s chest at the thought that it might have been something he said or did that pushed Dave to the edge, though he didn’t know what he could have done differently. He sure as hell couldn’t have let Dave return to his charade of normalcy, hiding his broken bones and abused body behind a gruff teenage attitude. Someone had to help him, since he was obviously unwilling to help himself.

“Actually, I was thinking we’d start by telling *you* a few things, David.” Mrs. Adams said as she idly ran her small hand over Dave’s big knee. The boy didn’t flinch at her touch like he’d been doing earlier, but Kurt didn’t know if that was because he was feeling safer or if the mask he put on to hide himself from the world wasn’t as revolted by touch as the real Dave seemed to be.

Dave ran his tongue nervously across his busted lip, eyes dancing around from face to face. “Yeah?” he said, his casual tone obviously feigned. Kurt had a feeling that the boy was anticipating a slap to the face. “What’s that?”

Mrs. Adams smiled brightly. “Well, I was thinking that we’d tell you why we love you.”

* * *

Dave stared down into the dark swirls of his hot chocolate, enjoying the warmth of the mug against his still-cold fingers, though his stomach was so twisted into knots that taking a sip would likely equal disaster. The last thing he needed was to add puking on the Adams’ floor to his list of crimes. 

After all, he’d just hurled a load of the whiniest, most pitiful word-vomit he’d ever heard in his life. Seriously, when had he acquired diarrhea of the brain? Was car exhaust a form of mental Ex-Lax that he’d never heard about? His cheeks were still burning from his stupid little confession. What the *hell* had gotten into him? He never cried! Yet here he was, covered in snot and tears, having just unloaded the biggest pile of woe-is-me crap he’d ever heard. It was pitiful. He was pitiful.

He really would be better off dead.

But he wasn’t dead. Mr. God hadn’t come through for Dave Karofsky this time—more proof that he was not Real Kid material—and he needed to get ahold of himself. You didn’t survive by being pitiful. He wasn’t some doe eyed little beauty. No one was going to feel sorry for him. He had to be strong, rebuild the walls that Kurt Hummel had somehow managed to shatter with his irritatingly pretty smile and whiny little voice.

“I guess you want to know what’s wrong with me,” Dave said as carelessly as he could, as if he couldn’t care less what anyone in this room had to say. It didn’t come out too badly. In fact, it was almost believable. Maybe he could still salvage a little dignity.

Of course, the question was… why bother? He would probably never see any of these people again. There was no way Figgins was going to let the Boy Who Almost Killed back through McKinley’s doors, and without school he’d be out of sight, out of mind. Oh, the Adams might try to keep in touch, and maybe Kurt, too. But Dave’s old man didn’t pay the phone bill, and none of them knew where he lived. Hell, Dave wasn’t sure where his Pops was living these days. But he could find him—that welfare check had to go somewhere.

“Actually,” Mrs. Adams said, her voice almost musical, “I was thinking we’d start by telling *you* a few things, David.”

Dave had to keep himself from flinching at the words. Yeah, he could imagine that they wanted to tell him a few things, alright. Like what a sick, perverted freak he was for hitting on Kurt’s dad. And what an ungrateful bastard he was for destroying their beautiful home after they’d saved his fat ass from a ticket straight to Hell. And what a pitiful loser he was for putting that burden on them by using their garage to try and escape shit that was his own damn fault in the most cowardly way possible. Oh yeah, he could *definitely* imagine a few things they might want to tell him.

“Yeah?” He said in an offhand way, as if he didn’t care, as if it wouldn’t hurt, as if it was just another painful day in his life and one more punch to the gut meant nothing to him. “What’s that?”

Mrs. Adams’ hand began to stroke his knee, making Dave frown a little, but he let it go, mostly because it was Mrs. Adams and she was so damn nice that it hurt. “Well, I was thinking that we’d tell you why we love you.”

Dave blinked, the words not really making any sense. They wanted to tell him why they loved him? Okay, this was officially the weirdest conversation he’d ever had. The last time someone had wanted to tell him why they loved him, he’d been forced to spend forty-five minutes listening to the bastard describe how much he’d adored the rough, painful fuck he’d just given Dave. 

Somehow Dave didn’t think Mrs. Adams was going for anything along those lines, and didn’t think she’d be pleased at all to hear about his rough, painful fucks with middle aged men, but his ‘Big D,’ Tough Karofsky persona was now fully in place and the words came out before he could stop them. “If you’re gonna talk about my blow jobs skills, I appreciate your support but, honestly, I’m sick of hearing about it.”

Kurt literally choked, almost spewing up hot chocolate, and Mrs. Adams looked like Dave had just hit her in the face. 

Dave winced inside, resisting the urge to smack *himself* in the face. What the hell was his problem? These people had been nothing but nice to him, and here he was acting like a thug?

“I’m sorry,” he muttered, his face feeling like it was on fire, he was blushing so hard. At least the bruises would mask it a little. “I… That was disgusting. I’m disgusting. I’m sorry, Mrs. Adams.” And he *was* sorry, but, at the same time, a small part of him was glad that they were finally going to see what he really was. Then they’d be finished with him and he could get on with his life without worrying at every turn that he was going to do something to hurt them more than he already had. In fact…

“No, you know what? I ain’t sorry. Welcome to the real world, lady. Twenty bucks would have me in your husband’s bed. And that’s on a good day. Some days I work for less. What can I say? My Pops is a good motivator.” Dave smiled crudely at Mr. Adams, though inside he felt like wanted to curl up in a ball and die. “You’d like him, Councilman. That man sure as hell knows how to get people to do what he wants. You gotta love a man who knows what he wants and takes it, right?” Dave crossed his arms over his chest in a clear sign of challenge, waiting for Mr. Adams to chase him out of his house or explode or at least say *something.* Instead the man just sat there, staring silently at Dave until he wanted to squirm in his seat, but he forced himself to stay still, to keep his eyes locked with the other man’s.

Finally, after what seemed like forever, Mr. Adams spoke, his voice quiet. “August 29th, 2006. You were… twelve years old, I believe? It was Azimio’s first day at his new school, and he came home with you on his heels. I was going over parts of the city code in my office when the two of you stormed in, a bundle of energy, and Azimio demanded I come help teach you to play football so that you could try out with him for the junior high team. You were wearing an old t-shirt that was way too big for you and some scruffy jeans. I could tell, from the way you looked at me, that you were afraid I was going to say something about the way your shoes were falling apart and how someone had obviously shaved your head with little care for how it looked, considering that some parts were longer than others. It was obvious that you were embarrassed. Azimio had already run downstairs, but you didn’t follow him. You stood in front of me and crossed your arms over your chest, lifted your little chin… everything about you radiated defiance. And you said to me, ‘I don’t got any money, just so you know. I’m the poor kid.’ You had this look in your eyes, like you expected me to deem you unworthy to play with my son and chase you from my big, expensive house. Do you remember that day, David?”

Dave swallowed hard and reached up without thinking to wipe his brow, frowning at the wetness on his hand. When had he started sweating? And why was his heart pounding so hard? “Yeah,” he said gruffly. “I remember. You said that money didn’t mean nothing to you, and that…” He choked slightly. “And that I seemed more like the cool kid than the poor kid to you.”

Mr. Adams sniffled, raising a hand to wipe at his eyes. “And you said that you didn’t know about that, but you really liked my bow-tie, that it was pretty cool.”

A short laugh escaped Dave’s lips. “I… I remember that. I was so scared that you wouldn’t want me to play with your son. He was the only kid at school who didn’t laugh when I opened my lunchbox and all I had was crackers. He gave me half of his sandwich.”

“And then we went outside and played ball, and I remember thinking that I’d never seen a kid look so happy, like tossing a ball around with Azimio’s old dad was the best thing in the world. When we were done, I offered to drive you home, but you just smiled up at me and…” Mr. Adams sniffled again, rubbing at his eyes. “And you told me th-that you c-could take care of yourself. A-and I said okay. Now I wonder, why in God’s name did I say okay? Why didn’t I see that something was so very wrong? Your eyes… they were so old. No twelve year old should have eyes that old…” Mr. Adams covered his face with his hands, his shoulders starting to shake, and Dave felt like he’d been stabbed in the heart.

“I-I’m sorry, Mr. Adams—“

“No,” Mr. Adams said sharply, looking up, his teary eyes locking with Dave’s. “I’m sorry, David. For failing you. For being a complete and utter fool. For not seeing signs that were right in front of my face.”

Dave blinked rapidly, trying to chase away the hated tears that were beginning to rise in his eyes again. “You didn’t do anything, Mr. Adams,” he said in a small voice. “Except maybe be nice to a kid you would have been better off without. Please don’t be sad. I wish I’d never come home with Azimio that day. I wish you’d never met me, then you wouldn’t have to deal with all this.”

Mr. Adams shook his head, wiping at his eyes again. “You don’t get it, do you, Dave? You’ve been hurt so much that you can’t even see what’s in front of your face. I wouldn’t change the times we’ve had together for the world, David. I’m not sad because I met you, I’m sad because I didn’t help you.”

“How long, Dave?” Mrs. Adams asked suddenly. When Dave looked over at her, her face was streaked in tears, mascara tracing dark lines down her cheeks. “How long have people been hurting you?”

Dave shifted uncomfortably on the couch. “Not that long,” he lied, wincing as his voice cracked at the end. “I mean, my life’s not so bad.”

“What does that mean, David? What’s ‘not so bad’? From what I saw of your father yesterday, I think we must have very different definitions of ‘not so bad.’” The pain in Mrs. Adams’ voice made Dave wish he’d never been born.

“Look, my Pops was in a bad mood yesterday. Had a little too much to drink. I… I was poor, yeah, but it wasn’t so terrible. I mean, okay, yeah, sometimes I did stuff that some people might think is kind of gross or wrong or whatever so that we could eat. But I spent a lot of time in foster care, too, and that was okay. I mean, I never stayed in one place very long, but it was always my fault. I know you guys maybe saw the better side of me, you know, apart from the time I upchucked in your car and pushed over your tree and stole the money from your change jar and stuff, but I’m not a good kid. My old man can be a jerk, but so can I.” Dave took a deep breath, letting it out slowly. “The truth is, there’s no reason for you to feel bad. I’m glad you didn’t know that my life was… less than perfect or whatever. ‘Cause then you might have done something about it, maybe taken me in or some crap like that, and then I wouldn’t have gotten to spend time with you all these years.”

Mrs. Adams frowned, looking a little lost. “What? David, that doesn’t make any sense.”

Dave swallowed hard. “Nobody wants me, okay? Not after they get to know me. My Po—I mean, some people, call me the five minute fuck because you wanna fuck me for five minutes then get fuck out.” The look on Mrs. Adams’ face wasn’t pretty—she looked horrified, actually—but Dave wanted to get his point across. These people needed to realize that it wasn’t their fault. It all came back to Dave. 

“You know the longest foster placement I ever had? Six months. And that was my very first one, with some real good people. They wanted me to be their kid real bad, but I kept fucking up. The only person since then whose kept me around for that long is my old man, and that’s mostly ‘cause he wants his welfare check and any other money I can come up with. The record, out of over a dozen placements? Four days. I punched their real kid in the face ‘cause he broke my Spiderman toy.” It had been the only toy Dave owned. “Being the best friend of a Real Kid is so, so much better than being the foster kid, don’t you get that?” His voice took on a pleading tone. “It’s almost like being a Real Kid. You get anything they get. You get to do whatever they do. No one can hit you or hurt you ‘cause you’re not their kid. I’d never, ever had that before I met Azimio. The other kids at school treated me like shit for being poor. The kids in my neighborhood mostly ignored me, except the ones who knew what I did at nighttime, and they called me a faggot and threw trash at me.”

“And when you say ‘what you did at night,’ you mean prostitution,” Mr. Hummel said, speaking up for the first time. His voice was steady but his face made it look like he’d eaten some bad Chinese.

“I…” Dave glanced over at Mrs. Adams. It wasn’t like they didn’t know, like they hadn’t figured it out five minutes into this mess. But it still hurt to actually come out and say it. “Yeah. I sell my ass, okay?” Dave said gruffly, staring hard at his feet. “I sell my big, fat ass for cash. But I’m not some pitiful little baby like they show on ‘Law and Order: SVU’ or whatever, okay? Don’t feel sorry for me. I use those fucking bastards for their money, and I always have. It’s my choice. It’s a good way to make money, especially when you’re too young to get a job, yeah? It always got me what I needed, and I kept doing it ‘cause I wanted to. I didn’t need no saving, because I was the one who decided to put on a pair of boyshorts and stand next to a cheap motel every night.”

“It’s rape,” Kurt said, his hand suddenly gripping Dave’s arm, face a rather unseemly red color. “It’s rape, Dave. Don’t you see that? Every single time it was rape.”

Dave yanked his arm away. “Yeah, the queer would say that. Doesn’t want to admit that so many of his kind are out being freak nasty. Rape means that you don’t want it. I wanted it. I’d beg for it, Ladyface. What do you think of that, huh? Does that turn you on?”

“David!” Kurt snapped, eyes flashing. “Stop it! Why are you doing this? Why can’t you accept that it was them, not you?”

“He’s right, you know,” Mr. Hummel cut in before Dave could respond. “Mind you, he could be a little more delicate in how he says things—wow, I never thought I’d say Kurt needed to be *more* delicate—but it wasn’t you, Dave. You weren’t at fault, no matter what happened. You’re just a kid. And as for all those foster homes? I have a hard time believing that you were the reason it didn’t work out. The foster system is notorious for its problems—“

“Bullshit!” Dave broke in, anger rising in his chest. “Bullshit! Don’t you give me a bunch of therapist crap about something you know nothing about. I was there, okay? It was me. It was *so* me, every single fucking time! They would *tell* me it was me! Tell me *why* it was me! And it was me! It was *me*!” Dave buried his face in his hands, choking back a sob as the memories came crashing back. “It was always, always me, no matter how hard I tried. I always messed up, and sorry was never good enough.”

 

August 2003, 8 Years Old

“So, David,” Mrs. Smithson said, “what do you think of your new home?” Little wrinkles bunched at the sides of her mouth as she smiled down at him, eyes all a’twinkle.

She looked so nice, this stout little lady with her turned up nose and curly brown hair just beginning to grey at the temples. Mr. Smithson looked really nice, too. Even though he was older, he still looked very strong and handsome, and his smile was big and honest, nothing like Pops’ cruel grins. Dave immediately liked them, trusted them, even, which made him a little nervous but maybe it was a good thing. Miss Maggie, his social worker, said that you were supposed to like and trust your family—that’s what made them family.

Dave wondered what his Pops was, then.

“It’s really nice, Mrs. Smithson,” Dave replied, voice cautious but hopeful. “Thanks for taking me in.”

“I’ve missed being a Dad, kiddo, and I’m really happy you’re here.” Mr. Smithson reached out, ruffling Dave’s hair in a friendly manner. It made him flinch a little. Dave hoped he hadn’t noticed. Miss Maggie had also said that you weren’t supposed to be scared of your family. “We’re gonna have a good time.”

Dave managed to keep himself from grimacing at the word choice. If his Pops had said that, he’d be on his tummy in a few minutes, but Miss Maggie had said that he shouldn’t judge these people based on his Pops, that most people weren’t like him. It would be pretty cool to live with somebody who wouldn’t hit him so much and maybe wouldn’t make him put his thing in his mouth until it got all salty and gross.

‘A real nice home with a real nice couple,’ is how she’d described Mr. and Mrs. Smithson. Dave still wasn’t positive how a being with a ‘real nice couple’ would be different from being with his Pops—Miss Maggie hadn’t been very clear, just saying that his old man did lots of stuff that he wasn’t supposed to—but he could definitely tell the difference between their apartment with its one bedroom and dirty floors and a ‘real nice home.’ 

David had never seen a place so nice in his whole *life.* There were three whole bedrooms, and one was going to be all his. It was really awesome, with a cowboy theme. The covers had boots and hats printed all over them and there was the coolest picture of a rodeo over his bed. There were two bathrooms, though Dave didn’t know what you could possibly need more than one potty for, and the kitchen was *gigantic.* There was actually a table in it where you could sit down and eat, like they did on TV, and the fridge was so big that he couldn’t even reach the top part. The one at his Pops’ place was smaller than he was.

The backyard was so cool. It had a swing set in it, like they did at the park, and a baketball hoop, too! Miss Maggie had said that his new school actually had sports and stuff, which was the awesomest thing ever. Dave loved sports, but his old school didn’t have any at all. Sometimes the kids on the block would play b-ball, using whatever was handy for hoops, but Miss Maggie said at the new school he could play baseball and basketball and hockey and football and a whole bunch of stuff! He was so excited.

“So, David, what do you say we get ready for dinner? I’m thinking hot dogs? How does that sound to you?”

“That sounds awesome, Mr. Smithson,” he said, grinning as the man grabbed his hand, tugging him playfully toward the kitchen. “I love hot dogs.”

Six Months Later…

“I don’t know what you expect me to do, Martha! I’m sorry, but I can’t take this anymore! I feel bad, but that kid has problems beyond what we can handle!”

Dave sniffled, wrapping his arms more tightly around his legs as he tried to make himself even smaller in the closet where he’d hidden himself away, as if it would make the angry voices disappear. He didn’t know how long he’d been hiding there, but it seemed like forever since his crying had awoken Mr. Smithson, and he’d run off to escape the disappointed look on the man’s face.

“You need to calm down, Tony,” Mrs. Smithson said, though her voice was loud and angry as her husband’s. “He just wet the bed! It’s not the end of the world! We can talk about this later, *after* we figure out where he ran off to!”

“Maybe we’d be better off if we never found him,” Mr. Smithson retorted harshly, and Dave had to choke down a sob, not wanting to give away his hiding place. The man sighed. “I’m sorry, that was mean. But he’s almost nine years old, Martha! What kid wets the bed at that age? And it’s not like this is a first time event! It’s every damn night, and I am sick of the way you just avoid the issue! I feel horrible for the boy, I do, but the bed wetting and all those tantrums and the way he runs off if you even look in his direction… They’re all signs of major problems, Martha! Problems that we are *not* equipped to handle.”

“Tony, it’s not that bad!”

“How many second graders get suspended from school for hitting a teacher?”

“He said he was sorry…”

“At this point? Sorry isn’t good enough. Hell, what about the stealing? You can’t take him anywhere that he doesn’t try and steal something. And let’s not forget the way he acts as if I’m going to beat him every time I try and touch him. Honestly? It’s embarrassing. I can only imagine what people think when they see a little kid hovering in terror when I try to hold his hand at the grocery store. I’m surprised no one’s tried to call the police on me. I feel so, so bad for the boy, I really do, but, like I said, we are not equipped to handle a child like this. It is not what we signed up for.”

“The social worker said he’d had some abuse in his past,” Mrs. Smithson said, her voice soft and indecisive.

“Yeah, but she didn’t say *anything* about these behavior problems. This is more than a few issues. An hour of therapy is *not* gonna fix this kid. He needs more than we can give him.”

There was a long silence. Dave held his breath, tears flowing silently down his cheeks. Finally, after what seemed like forever, Mrs. Smithson spoke.

“I know, Tony,” she said tiredly. “You’re right. This is way more than we bargained for. I don’t want to hurt him, but he needs to go someplace where they can help him. And that place is not here. I just feel so, so horrible…”

“I know it’s hard, Martha,” Mr. Smithson said, his voice growing gentle, “but remember, this was a foster placement, not an adoption. He was never meant to stay.”

Dave covered his face with his hands and began to sob.

 

January 2005, 10 Years Old

“Okay, you’ll be sleeping in here,” Mrs. Carson said with a smile. “Sorry about the boxes. I keep nagging Jerry to move them, but he’s so busy with work. There’s a sleeping bag in there until the mattress arrives.”

Dave nodded eagerly, not really caring about boxes or beds. He was just happy to be out of the cold. Hopefully he’d manage to string this placement out for while.

The couple seemed nice enough. They were both lawyers, and their house was very nice. He’d be sleeping in the basement, but that was fine with him. He knew by now that guest rooms were for guests, not for foster kids. He was grateful to have a place to sleep at all. So it would be chilly and he would have to sleep on the floor until they found a bed for him—he knew better than to look a gift horse in the mouth.

Plus, there was an upside to being in the basement. Down here there was actually a possibility that his nightmares might go unnoticed, and the concrete floor could be easily cleaned if he wet himself during the night. The night terrors, accompanied by screaming and bed wetting, were what tended to get him kicked out of placements so fast. No one wanted a ten year old bed wetter. Dave didn’t know what was wrong with him. He tried to hold in his pee, he really did. He also tried to pee a whole lot before going to bed, but it didn’t stop it from happening. 

Dave had once heard Miss Maggie tell one of his foster parents that it was a common symptom of kids like him. Dave wasn’t sure what kind of kid he was that did something so icky, but he knew it wasn’t normal for boys his age. He’d accidentally done it at a sleepover once, and it had been the most humiliating thing in his life, which was saying something. Now none of the boys at school would even talk to him, and every morning they’d call him a baby and make jokes about buying him a diaper.

“Now, you can go anywhere in the house that you like as long as you stay out of Jerry’s study, okay? And you need to be quiet—both of us work primarily from home, and we can’t have you disturbing that, alright? We expect you to be on your best behavior at all times. Is that understood?”

“Yes, m’am,” Dave said quietly. It was very understood.

Three Months Later…

“I am very disappointed in you, young man,” Mr. Carson said, voice full of reproach as he shoved Dave face-down on the bed. “How many times have I been forced to do this in the past week?”

Dave held his breath to keep from going into automatic panic mode as he felt hands yanking his shorts down to his ankles, taking his underwear with them. A moment later his T-shirt was pulled up over his head, leaving him bare backed and unable to see. He sniffled, trying to hold back the tears that were threatening to rise.

“Well, how many times?” There was a hint of irritation in Mr. Carson’s voice and Dave knew he’d better answer quick, or risk making it worse for himself.

“Five times, sir,” Dave said as quietly as he could, afraid to speak too loudly. That’s what he was here for, after all. Being too loud.

“That’s right. Five times I’ve had to punish you! I don’t know what is wrong with you, young man. I have never seen a louder, more disrespectful child in my life.”

Dave swallowed hard, his whole body vibrating with tension. It was scary, not having any clue when the first strike would come. He wished Mr. Carson would pull his shirt off all the way so he’d at least have a hint of when it would be.

He didn’t have to wait too long. The belt came down on his back with a sharp, loud smack, and it took all he had in him not to cry out in pain. His skin burned where the leather had struck it, and the fact that his back, legs, and thighs were already mottled with welts and bruises from his earlier beatings definitely didn’t help the pain any.

It was okay, though. He could be strong. Mr. Carson’s belt hurt, but not nearly as bad as his Pops’ fists. Mr. Carson never even used the buckle end on him, and he never gave Dave more than ten or twelve lashes. His Pops had once hit him over and over and over again with his belt until the world started to tilt and he passed out. He didn’t know how many times he’d been hit, but every bit of skin on his back had been inflamed, so much that he couldn’t even go to school for fear of a teacher noticing and turning his old man in.

Of course, his old man had taken off for God knows where a week later, anyway, and Dave wasn’t sure when he’d be back, or if maybe this time he’d left him forever.

Truthfully, Mr. Carson’s whippings didn’t bother Dave all that much, once the initial rush of fear and pain had faded. Definitely not enough to ever say anything about them. Life was too nice with the Carsons. They loved food and always took him with them when they went out to eat. Dave always got to order whatever he wanted and even got dessert. Mrs. Carson liked to make jewelry, and she would let Dave sit with her in her craft room, stringing colorful little bracelets to give to his friends. Not that he had any friends to give them to, but it was fun anyway.

Hanging out with Mr. Carson was fun too, when the man wasn’t angry with him, anyway. Mr. Carson liked to golf a whole lot. It had scared Dave at first ‘cause his Pops had once hit him in the face with a putter, but Mr. Carson never tried anything like that and Dave’s uneasiness had faded away. Mr. Carson had even bought some kid sized clubs for Dave so that they could hit balls together at the driving range. Sometimes he let him drive the golf cart around, which was totally cool. 

The Carsons had a thing about being noisy, though. Especially Mr. Carson. It didn’t matter how hard Dave tried, he always messed up. He didn’t mean to, he really didn’t, but he could never manage to be as quiet as they wanted. He just forgot sometimes, when something on TV made him laugh really loud or when he was playing battle and the invading army of gummy bears attacked his little green toy soldiers. But Dave tried, really hard, to remember, because he really liked this family.

“You know, Dave, I have to say that I am really getting tired of the way you blatantly disobey my rules.” The belt came down for the seventh time and Dave choked back a whimper as his whole back seemed to sizzle with pain. “I’ve been talking to my wife and we’ve agreed that, if you aren’t willing to be a good boy, then this really isn’t the place for you.”

Suddenly the pain in Dave’s back seemed like nothing. A different kind of pain had overcome it, a much, much worse pain. “No,” he said, tears welling up in his eyes as he reached up, clawing at the T-shirt in an attempt to pull it off so he could look at Mr. Carson. “No, please don’t make me go away, Mr. Carson. I really like being here with you! I’m really, really sorry I’m not a good boy and I promise promise promise I’ll be better!”

The belt came down on his back again and, this time, Dave didn’t hide his sob.

“At this point, Dave, I’m afraid that sorry isn’t good enough.”

 

June 2008, 13 Years Old

“Well, it’s off to boy’s night out, Dave!” Mr. Jackson said with a big grin as he playfully punched Dave on the shoulder. “Don’t wait up for us, Lila! We have manly things to do—burgers to eat, sports to watch!” He gave his wife an affectionate squeeze and she smiled up at him in obvious adoration.

“You gents have yourself a great time!” Ms. Lila lifted herself up on her tip-toes, wrapping her little arms around her unusually tall husband’s neck as she gave him a little peck on the lips. Dave looked away, trying to choke down the guilt rising in him.

She was so sweet, Ms. Lila. Dave really, really liked her, more than he’d ever liked a foster mom before. She was everything you could ask for in a mother. She cheered him on in sports and made him cookies and helped him with his homework and washed his socks. She was amazing, the first person in his whole life who’d actually made him feel like a Real Kid. It was awesome, and Dave was determined not to mess it up like he had every other placement. At least wetting the bed was no longer a factor, as he had finally learned to control his bladder. Actually, he’d learned to control the memories that made him scream in the night, and the bed wetting had stopped on its own. He was working as hard as he could to be everything Ms. Lila could possibly want in a son, and he was doing exceptionally well, in his personal opinion. Well, except for one little thing.

“You ready for this, Dave?” Mr. Jackson asked as he pulled into the parking lot of the ratty building Dave had come to think of as hell. The same big grin the man had given Ms. Lila was smeared across his face now.

Dave didn’t answer, just opened the car door and climbed out. There was no point in talking. If he wanted to stay with Ms. Lila, then he had to make Mr. Jackson happy. And this, as he’d learned during his first week in their home, was what made Mr. Jackson happy.

Mr. Jackson paid at the door, and Dave obediently flashed the fake ID his foster father had scrounged up for him. 

The club was dimly lit, LED lights flashing in time with the pounding beat of the music. Waitresses in thongs and bikini tops made their way around the scattered stages, loaded down with trays of alcohol and nachos. Manly food in a manly place. Boy’s night out indeed.

Up front on the main stage, a tall woman with mocha colored skin swung around a pole with one hand as she used the other to caress her enormous breasts. Her enormous, *naked* breasts.

Dave’s face burned so red at the sight that he was sure everyone could see it, even in the poor lighting. He followed Mr. Jackson obediently to their usual bench, trying to force down the sick feeling in his stomach. He’d been held down by men and fucked with no preparation at all. An evening at a strip club should be no big deal for a pro like him. There was something about it, though, that made Dave feel like he was six years old again, tired and aching as his Pops rutted him. It was all so foreign, something he didn’t understand, yet his changing body responded eagerly to it, despite the fact that he didn’t find any of the unnatural looking women attractive. Of course, he was thirteen. His body responded to everything.

Dave understood a man who wanted his ass. He was used to it. By now being fucked was an almost impersonal thing, separate from him and his feelings. But this… Not only was it sexual, but it involved his own body turning on him, betraying him for some man’s entertainment. It was demeaning.

“Looking for a dance?”

Dave glanced away as a young, blonde woman in heels so high they should have been impossible to walk in, much less dance in, flashed her breasts in his face. Mr. Jackson, however, would have none of that. He smiled at her, holding up a pair of twenties.

“Indeed he is Miss…”

“I’m Sapphire.”

Dave grimaced at the ridiculous name. He might be cheap ass on a street corner that had to perform a dozen intimate acts to make a quarter of what this girl made in a night, dancing with her shirt off, but at least he didn’t have some stupid stage name.

“You are quite the stud, young man.”

Dave tried his best to avoid her eyes. Unfortunately that meant looking at her unnaturally large tits, something he was less than inclined to do. 

“What’s your name, handsome?” Sapphire asked as she tugged at one of her nipples, apparently mistaking his attempt to avoid her gaze as interest in her beach balls.

A sharp poke in the ribs from Mr. Jackson brought Dave back from his hazy thoughts. “Huh? Oh, I’m Dave.” Or maybe he should call himself “Diamond”… Or maybe “Dildo”?

“Dave, huh? That is a pretty sexy name, stud.” She straddled his lap in one smooth motion, breasts pressing against his face. He grimaced at the sickly sweet smell of perfume and sweat. “How about we have some fun, sexy baby?”

Dave swallowed hard as she began to gyrate against him, the familiar feeling of utter humiliation washing over him. He’d been fucked by more men than he could count, but somehow this managed to be just a bit worse. More personal, like it was a direct attack carefully planned to bring him down. Which, he thought, glancing over at Mr. Jackson, it sort of was.

The woman’s steady rubbing had Dave’s back-stabbing teenage hormones on full alert, his dick throbbing between his legs. He wasn’t going to last long.

Mr. Jackson reached over, his hands caressing Sapphires boobs but his eyes locked firmly on Dave’s still red face.

Dave blushed even harder, biting his lip in an attempt to hold back the coming tide. 

No. Nonononono. He would not cum in his pants in the middle of a fucking strip club just for Mr. Jackson’s twisted entertainment. Not again. Not tonight. He was better than this. Maybe not much better, but a little better. He still had some dignity left. He would hold back—

Dave choked as his body betrayed him, shoulders shaking as an intense mix of pleasure and shame flooded him. Mr. Jackson laughed aloud, shaking his head as Dave began to apologize profusely to the annoyed looking stripper, doing his best to cover the wet spot on his jeans with his hands.

Tears rose in his eyes and he blinked them away, viciously shoving the pain down as best he could. It was over, for now anyway. He could go back home, curl up in his bed, and dream about how good the blueberry pancakes Ms. Lila always made for him on Friday mornings would taste. It was over and he could go back to the closest thing he’d ever had to a mom.

 

One Month Later…

 

Dave stumbled with the strength of the blow, surprised that such a small woman could slap someone that hard. Of course pure, unfettered rage could do that to a person.

“You sick, filthy, disgusting bastard!” Ms. Lila screamed at him, eyes flashing with anger. “After all I did for you, treating you like my very own son, this is how you repay me, you dirty son of a bitch? Messing with my husband’s head, getting him to take you to titty bars so that you could get your rocks off?”

The taste of blood filled Dave’s mouth, and he realized that he’d bitten through his cheek. At least it was helping him hold back the tears. He dropped his eyes, not wanting her to see the shame and helplessness he was feeling.

“Hey, don’t you look away from me!” She yanked his chin up roughly. “Meet my eyes, you whore!”

“I-I’m sorry, Ms. Lila, I swear I didn’t—“

“Shut up!” she snapped, slapping him again. Dave winced, raising a hand to touch his inflamed cheek. “I don’t want to hear any more of your lies! You are pitiful! Coming in here and trying to destroy my marriage? No wonder no one ever kept you for more than a few months! You destroy people’s lives!”

Dave rubbed at his face, sniffing, the words stabbing him in the heart. “I’m so, so, so sorry Ms. Lila—“

“Sorry isn’t good enough!” She interrupted, lip curled up hatefully. “Nothing is good enough to make up for what you’ve done, you worthless brat! Get out of my house, you piece of filth! I hope you rot in hell! 

 

…And they said that it wasn’t him.

Dave choked, once more on the brink of tears as he felt Kurt’s arms wrap around him, despite his earlier promise that he would be strong, no more of this pathetic crying. “I’m telling you,” he said, his voice hoarse. “It was definitely me. It was definitely, definitely me.”


	18. Brotherly Love

Dave stared up at the ceiling. It was peaceful, lying there on a soft bed with a fluffed pillow to support his head and a downy cover to keep him warm. He felt as safe as he ever did, not really a familiar feeling. Not familiar at all, in fact. A funny word, ‘familiar,’ so close but so far from ‘family.’ Dave was pretty sure the words were linked, though English wasn’t his best subject. He supposed that, in way, family was always familiar, no matter what kind of family they were. Pops’ engorged temper and brutal punishments were familiar to Dave, something he could count on. The one sure thing in his life.

They liked to call home placements ‘foster families,’ but there was nothing familiar about them, well, beyond the fact that they all ended badly. Each one was a new failure waiting to happen, a new kind of tragedy for a new day. So many placements, so many group homes. Out of them all, only his Pops had ever been faithful to him.

Dave supposed it was kind of sick to think like that. How could you call someone ‘faithful’ when all they did was hurt you? Wasn’t ‘faithful’ supposed to be a good thing? But sick or not, it was the truth. He could count on his old man’s hate, and his old man could count on his love. Maybe he should get that tattooed on his knuckles. A perfect metaphor of his life, written on a fist.

“Hey kiddo,” his Pops said, grabbing him in his arms and swinging him around. Dave laughed happily, his little mouth turning up into a huge grin. “Who’s my boy? Eh? Yer my boy, ain’t cha?”

The good memories were few and far between, but they were there. Memories of the man he loved.

“Oh man, can you believe that motherfucker screwed up that pass, boy?” His Pops shook his head, grinning at Dave as he tossed him a bottle of Bud. “Seriously, they are pitiful this year! They outta put you in for that bastard—you ain’t good for much, but you can throw a damn good pass. My son ain’t no loser.”

Dave’s eyes stung at the memory. Twisted as it was, he missed his Pops.

“Whoa, now that was what I call a hit! You gonna play in the Majors someday, kiddo.” His Pops reached out, ruffling Dave’s hair affectionately. “Proud o’ ya.”

There was a soft knock at the door and Dave turned his head, wondering if the Adams and Kurt had set up a schedule for checking on him or something. After Dave had finally gotten control of his roller coaster emotions and shut down like he should have from the beginning, their little therapy group had reluctantly broken apart and they’d settled Dave into one of the guest rooms. Kurt had refused to go home, stubborn little bitch, and was down the hall, probably still going through his beauty rituals.

“Come on in,” Dave said, suddenly glad he hadn’t slipped the chair under the doorknob, despite the sense of security it gave him. He was too fucking tired to get off his fat ass and open the door.

The door opened with a squeak and Dave was surprised to see Azimio standing there, shifting from foot to foot, looking uncomfortable.

Dave took a steadying breath, doing his best to suppress any feelings he might have about Azimio seeing him like this, broken and pitiful.

“Hey, man,” Dave said, pushing himself up in the bed and rearranging the pillow so that he could lean comfortably against the headboard. “What’s up?” His voice was overly casual, too chill to be real in a situation like this. He wasn’t doing very well playing Normal lately.

Azimio shut the door quietly behind him and took a few hesitant steps toward the bed. “Hey, Dave.”

His voice was unusually soft, dangerously soft, and Dave felt his stomach turn, sure that the moment had finally come. His only real friend was going to dump him like the trash he was. Dave was finally going to lose the one person who’d overlooked his dirty hair and cheap clothes and ratty sneakers, the one person who’d never mentioned how Dave ate like a pig or stole change from donation cans at the supermarket or freaked out when someone touched his arm. The only person he could ever depend upon--well, in a *good* way, anyhow.

“Hey, man,” Dave said, then winced as he realized he’d already said that. “What’s up?” Again with the repetition. Yup, he was sucking at Normal today. He pulled his knees up to his chest, wrapping his arms around them.

Azimio sort of shuffled over to the bed, looking for the life of him like a little kid about to get spanked. “I… I want to talk to you, buddy.”

Dave flinched slightly. Azimio only called him ‘buddy’ when he was being serious, which wasn’t often. “Yeah,” Dave said, trying to hide his nerves. “Okay.” He gestured toward the bed. “Take a seat, dude.”

Azimio did, perching on the edge of the bed, his whole body tensed. Dave took a deep breath, steeling himself for whatever declaration was to come, be it ‘you messed up freak, stay the hell away from me’ or ‘I can’t believe you’re such a prick, stay the hell away from me.’ Or maybe just a good, old fashioned, ‘stay the hell away from me.’

It was hard to see Azimio’s face since the only light in the room was the moon seeping in through the window, but his hands were clutching hard at his thighs, body strung so tight he looked like a rubber band about to snap. “I’m sorry, man,” Azimio blurted out, fingers clamping even tighter on his legs. 

Dave blinked. Those weren’t the words he was expecting, not that anything that had happened in the past few days had been what he’d expected. “What?” he said dumbly.

“I said I’m sorry,” Azimio replied, voice going quiet. “I am so sorry, man.”

Dave’s brow crinkled up. Sorry for what? For not wanting to hang out with a freak like Dave? Dave could understand that.

Azimio took a deep breath. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, man, ‘cause…” his voice caught and Dave suddenly realized that his friend was on the edge of tears. He had never, in all the years they’d been together, seen Azimio cry. “‘Cause I knew. I’m sorry, ‘cause I knew, and I didn’t do shit.”

“What?” Dave shook his head, still not understanding. “Z, what are you babbling about?”

Azimio moved closer to Dave on the bed, moonlight spilling over his face, and Dave could see the anguish on his friend’s face. “I knew, Dave, and I didn’t tell anybody. You nearly died ‘cause I didn’t tell anybody.” He wrapped his arms around himself like he was cold.

“I… I still don’t get it,” Dave said, head spinning. “Dude, you have *nothing* to be sorry for. You didn’t do anything—“

“Exactly!” Azimio cut in, voice switching from pained to furious in an instant, but somehow Dave didn’t think the anger was directed at him. “I didn’t do anything. You really think I missed all the signs, Dave? You think I’m stupid, and blind on top o’ that? At least my folks only got to see the trailer. I saw the whole damn movie, and I was too cowardly to do anything. Too fucking scared that if I told anybody, you’d hate me. That the one person in that shit hole of a school we go to that doesn’t either make jokes about my mom cooking crack in our kitchen to pay for my Corvette or call me ‘Oreo,’ because living in a nice house and having your daddy on the city council *must* mean you’re ‘acting white,’ whatever the fuck ‘acting white’ means. I was so goddamn worried about myself, having to walk those halls with only shit heads like Puckerman and Hudson to call my friends, that I talked myself out of helping you, every single time.”

Dave’s mouth dropped open, but not for the reason his buddy probably thought. Azimio had been afraid of losing him? Seriously? It had never even crossed his mind that losing him as a friend would mean shit to Azimio. He was rich, he was popular, he was cool… What did he need a guy like Dave for? “I… You… you really cared that much about being my friend?”

Azimio snorted. “That’s what you got out of that? Dude, don’t you get it? You’re like my goddamn brother. If you weren’t around, I wouldn’t have nobody. I mean, maybe I still got the pricks on the football team pretending like we’re all best buds, but when it comes down to it, I don’t give a crap about them and they don’t give a crap about me. You’re my best bed, man, my bro. Without you, my life would pretty much suck.”

Dave swallowed down the lump rising in his throat as he tried to process this… this… revelation. Yeah, that’s what it was. A revelation. That’s what you called shit that turned your whole world upside down, right? The idea that he really, truly meant something to Azimio… His whole life he’d seen himself as someone for people to put up with. The tag-along stray that they tolerated as long as it served its purpose. He’d never contemplated that maybe there was someone out there who would honestly miss him if he was gone.

“But that’s my whole point. That’s why I’m sorry. I wanted so bad to keep you by my side that I kept my big fucking mouth shut, and I almost lost ya for it, dude.” Azimio made a choked sound. “And that’s not even taking into account that I sat back and did nothing while you was fucking starving and getting the shit beat out of you. What kind of friend is that? That’s no fucking friend at all! That’s a selfish, stupid punk who don’t deserve to be called your friend!”

“Dammit, Z!” Dave said, pushing the covers aside to move over next to Azimio, wrapping an arm around the other boy’s slumped shoulders. “Don’t talk like that, dude. You were the best thing that ever happened to me. Before you came around, I had nobody I could count on. And I mean nobody. No mom, no dad, no friends. I was all alone. When you transferred to this district, it changed my life. I wasn’t alone anymore.” He gave the boy’s shoulders a squeeze. “As for the other crap? There was nothing you could have done to help, dude. Life is what it is.”

“Bullshit,” Azimio said, raising his head up to look Dave in the eyes. “I could have helped you, Dave. I had *so* many chances to help you. But I never, ever did.”

 

“Oh my God, man,” Azimio breathed, his voice a strange mix of sickened and awed. “Your hands…” He shook his head, looking shell-shocked. “Your *hands*, buddy.”

Dave tried to hold back the tears that kept sneaking up on him, blinking rapidly to keep them from falling. Big boys don’t cry. He was *not* a crier. They would *not* make him cry. “Yeah. I’m a clumsy bastard, huh?”

“Dude… I don’t see how you could have done this with coffee.” Azimio’s voice was hushed, hardly more than a whisper.

Dave’s heart pounded a little too fast at the words, making his already ill stomach feel even worse. God, it hurt. It hurt *so* bad. He wanted to cry, he wanted to scream, he wanted to get down on his knees and beg someone to chop his hands off because having them gone *had* to hurt less than this, but he held it all in, putting on a brave face. Gotta be Normal. “Yeah, it was nuts. I spilled it on one hand, then tried to grab it with the other and spilled it on that one.” Dave wasn’t sure that actually made sense, but it was the best he could come up with through the horrible burning sensation that seemed to be spreading from his raw, swollen hands throughout his entire body.

“Dave, I think you need to go to the hospital. It… It looks…” Azimio took a deep breath, a sickened look on his face. “It looks like some of your skin is kind of peeling off. I… I don’t think a few dabs of burn cream is going to cut it.”

“It’s fine,” Dave said harshly. “I’ll live, okay? It was just an accident, okay? Just an accident!” His voice rose a little at the end and he forced himself to clamp his mouth shut. Azimio was suspicious enough as it was without him screaming his head off that it really, truly was an accident. Totally an accident. Nobody had shoved his hands into a pot of boiling water. No, no, of course not! It was just an accident.

“Okay, okay,”Azimio said soothingly. “I didn’t say it wasn’t an accident, all right? I just said maybe you need a doc for this. I mean, it’s your hands, buddy. You don’t wanna fuck up your hands.”

Dave shook his head vigorously. “No. No doctors. I hate doctors. I’ll be fine. Just put the goddamn burn cream on them and wrap them up, okay?” He stared into Azimio’s eyes, a little pleadingly. “Please, help me out here. Please, Z?”

After a long moment Azimio let out a sigh and reached for the cream, shaking his head. “Whatever you want, Dave.”

*

“Hey, dude, what’s takin’ ya so long?” Dave jumped at the sound of Azimio’s voice, quickly reaching down for the shirt he’d dropped on the floor, trying to yank it on before Azimio walked in and saw his back. He cursed as he tried to untangle it from his hoodie.

“Seriously what’s taking so long—shit man!”

Dave grimaced. He’d been too slow. He gritted his teeth and forced himself to turn around and look at his friend. Azimio’s face was surprisingly blank for someone who had just seen a back covered in over two hundred stitches running in long, thin lines down his body, occasionally crossing one another.

“Hey, Z,” Dave said casually as he finally freed his shirt. He pulled it over his head, doing his best not to whimper as the movement made the long cuts on his back hurt like hell. “Sorry, I’m ready now.”

“Dude,” Azimio said, voice sounding strained. “What happened to your back?”

“Huh?” Dave replied, like it was a paper cut he’d forgotten about. “Oh that? I was washing the upstairs windows of my neighbor’s house for her and I fell off the ladder. Landed in the fucking rose bushes. Can you believe that?” It wasn’t hard to make a pained face. “Fucking sucked. Seriously. Ouch.”

“Yeah,” Azimio said slowly. Dave’s pulse quickened as a fleet of emotions rolled over his friend’s face. Finally the other boy gave a shrug, still looking a little troubled. “Okay, whatever. Let’s go. We don’t want to miss the game.” He turned to head out of the room and Dave let out a sigh of relief.

*

“Damn, Dave, what are you *doing*?” 

Dave froze, hand still in the Fruit Loops box, a red flush coming over his face. Next to him was a pile of empty boxes and containers, all stuff he’d dug from the very back of the cabinet in hopes that they wouldn’t be missed.

“Uh…” Dave said, mind racing as he tried to come up with a valid reason for having eaten a bag of marshmallows, a box of Frosted Mini Wheats, a bag of Doritos, and half a tub of peanut butter in one sitting. “I… I was just having a snack.” He winced at his own words. A snack? More like a binge, really.

Azimio stared at him, refusing to look away, and Dave blushed again.

“Sorry, man, I, um, was out yesterday. Out at my, uh, aunt’s house. Helping her. Helping her clean the attic. Yeah. And I forgot to eat lunch. And then dinner.. Then I was tired this morning and I forgot to eat breakfast. And then I was, uh, helping a friend of my dad’s with… with something… and I forgot to eat lunch. Then dinner.”

“You forgot to eat,” Azimio said flatly, not looking like he believed it for a second. “You forgot to eat for two days. For two days, you forgot to eat.”

Put it like that, it did sound insane. Dave smiled nervously, giving his friend a nod. “Yeah, crazy, right?” He glanced around. “I’m, uh, sorry for the mess, man. I’ll clean it up. And… And I’ll give you money for the cereal and peanut butter and stuff,” he added, though the thought of giving up a cent of his hard earned cash was painful. “Sorry.”

Azimio waved the words away. “Dude, I’m pretty sure that we can afford a couple o’ boxes of cereal. Eat as much as you want, fat ass. Hell, eat the whole fridge if you want. I’m gonna go play Guitar Hero, okay?”

Dave nodded, letting out a sigh of relief as Azimio left the room. Next time he ransacked their cabinets he would have to be more careful not to get caught.

*

Dave was exhausted. Last night his Pops had shown up after five weeks of absence, demanding cash. Dave wasn’t sure how his old man always managed to find him, but he was starting to suspect some kind of GPS device had been shoved up his ass. So, always the good son, Dave had hit the streets to earn daddio some booze money. 

The night had not gone entirely as planned. One of Dave’s tricks had suddenly decided that it would be really hot to choke him, and he had a necklace of bruises on his throat to testify to it. Despite being September, it was steaming hot outside—thank you, global warming—so turtlenecks were out. Too bad he couldn’t pull off a lightweight flowery scarf like the weird looking fag in his freshman bio class could. His arms were decked out, too, with savage looking rope burns on his wrists and little moon-shaped cuts on his arms where the man’s fingernails had dug in hard enough to draw blood.

It had been a very exhausting night indeed.

“Yo, Dave, my man, you’ll never guess who just said ‘yes’ to the Az-man’s Fall Formal invite…” Azimio’s words died off as he stared at Dave with wide eyes. “Man,” he said in a low voice, “what happened to you?” He reached toward Dave’s face, probably to touch the deep bite mark on Dave’s swollen lips, but Dave flinched away, much to his embarrassment. Azimio quickly pulled his hand back, well aware by now of his best friend’s distaste for being touched.

“I got in a fight,” Dave said simply. He hadn’t been able to come up with a clever story to explain away marks like this, so a fight it was. Passable, and better than the truth. Somehow he didn’t think Azimio would appreciate ‘A sadist tied me to a bed and raped me.’ He would prefer not to lose his only real friend.

“A fight? Don’t look like any kind of fight I’ve ever seen” Azimio’s voice was doubtful and, for the millionth time, Dave cursed the other boy’s intelligence. Social workers, teachers, doctors, and nurses—all idiots. So why did Azimio have to be so clever?

“Oh, the guy tried to strangle me. I was kind of drunk, and he was too, so it sort of turned into this crazy wrestling match. The guy bit my fucking lip, can you believe that?” He laughed nervously. “He was so wasted it was *nuts*.”

“What about your wrists, dude?”

Dave’s mind raced. “Oh. That. Yeah. The cops showed up, see. And like I said, I was drunk, and I kept trying to yank my wrists out of the fucking cuffs. So stupid.”

“So… you got arrested? How’d you get out?”

Dave’s face flushed. Why the hell did Azimio have to ask so many damn questions? “They decided not to arrest me, okay? God, will you drop it already, Azimio?”

“It just, well, it sort of looks like maybe somebody held you down, dude—“

“Shut *up*, Azimio!” Dave practically shouted, wincing as several people in the hall turned to stare. He shifted his backpack around nervously. “I got in a fight, okay?” he said through gritted teeth. “Look, I got class. Later, dude.”

“Dave, wait, man!”

Dave shoved a band geek out of his way, not bothering to look back. He didn’t want Azimio to see how bright his eyes were.

*

It was the very first day of junior high. If Dave had been any other kid, he might have been excited. As it was, his stomach was tied up in knots. His butt hurt from the beating his Pops had given him last night, making sitting in the little desks very uncomfortable, and already Noah had made fun of the way he looked. Not that he could really blame him.

The night before Dave’s old man had gotten it into his head to shave Dave’s head. He’d gone about it in his usual drunk, haphazard way, shaving it to the scalp in some places and leaving patches of fuzzy hair in others. It looked like shit and, for all he knew, his Pops had done it to humiliate him. Dave hadn’t been brave enough to protest. The clothes he was wearing were almost as bad as the haircut, his shirt way too big for him and smelling of cigarette smoke. His sneakers had duct tape wrapped around them and he was using one of those 99 cent cloth grocery bags as a backpack.

Dave tried his best to sneak into the cafeteria, skirting along the edges to keep from drawing attention to himself. Even though he played on the baseball and basketball team with the other boys in his class, they never wanted him around. Or, to be more precise, they wanted him around, but only so that they could make fun of him.

Dave figured junior high was going to be even worse than elementary. This was the first year that you could play football and, as much as Dave wanted to be on the team with the other guys, he had never even held a football. His Pops loved to watch it, but he’d never cared enough to teach Dave how to play. Now he’d be even more of an outsider, the one boy not on the football team.

Dave settled down at the far end of the 7th Grade table, ignoring Scott’s shouts about shaving his head with a blender as he pulled out the little metal cookie tin that served as his lunchbox, not really wanting to open it. God knew what his Pops had decided would make a good lunch. With Dave’s luck, his old man had slipped some marijuana in there and he would get kicked out of school. And also arrested.

“Hi.”

Dave looked up at the voice, raising his eyebrows as a stout looking black boy smiled down at him. His first thought was that the boy was obviously well off, dressed in an expensive looking Yankees replica jersey, the kind of jeans that were made brand new to look like they were worn out, and a pair of Nike tennis shoes that Dave recognized as costing well over two hundred dollars. He would know, he’d spent a lot of time mooning over them through Footlocker’s display window.

“Hi,” Dave replied guardedly, not quite sure why a kid like that was talking to The Poor Boy.

“Mind if I sit here?”

Dave’s eyes widened and he glanced surreptitiously over at the jocks bunched together at the other end of the table, wondering if this was some kind of prank.

The boy must have noticed, because he said, “I don’t really wanna sit with those jerk heads. They keep asking me which rap star my dad is.”

Dave frowned. “Your dad’s a rap star?”

The boy let out a huff of laughter, settling himself down in the seat across from Dave. “No, he’s a judge. Well, was a judge. He just got elected to the city council, so I guess he’s a politician now.”

Well, that explained the expensive shoes. 

“Yeah, those guys can be bastards,” Dave said casually, trying to test the waters. “I mean, we’re on the same baseball team, and they’re okay some of the time. But they get kind of weird about me not having a lot of money. They call me The Poor Kid.”

The boy didn’t look bothered in the least; in fact, he rolled his eyes. “Who the hell cares about that crap? It’s just money. It doesn’t really matter.”

Spoken like someone who has *plenty* of money. But, hey, Dave would take what crumbs he could get. Being friends with a rich kid couldn’t be a bad thing, right?

“I’m Dave Karofsky.”

“Azimio Adams. Nice to meet ya.” He pulled out a lunchbox with Ironman on the front, popping it open to reveal a lunch that looked like it had been put together at some fancy deli or something. Dave’s mouth practically watered at the sight of the thick sandwich, piled high with ham and turkey.

“Yo, David Copperfield, what you got for lunch today?”

Dave jumped at the sound of Noah’s voice, then turned to scowl at the boy standing behind him. “Fuck off, Puckerman. Don’t you have train cars to tag or whatever your wanna-be poser-punk ass does for fun?”

The boy smirked, then reached out suddenly, yanking the lid off Dave’s tin, letting it fall to the floor with a clatter. Inside were three of the little packs of Saltine crackers that they gave you with soup at restaurants. Dave’s face flamed as Noah burst into laughter and he dropped his eyes, not wanting to see the look on Azimio’s face.

“I see you’re eating as well as ever, Poor Kid. You carry my books for the rest of the day and maybe I’ll give you a Frito and a carrot stick. What you say, fatty?”

“How about you fuck off?,” came Azimio’s voice, and Dave looked up in surprise as the boy took half of his oh-my-God-so-delicious looking sandwich and dropped it in Dave’s cookie tin. “This is a loser free zone, what was it, FUCKerman? And since I smell loser all over you, I suggest you leave before they show up to fumigate your sad self.”

“Who the hell do you think you are?” Noah snapped, glaring down at Azimio.

The boy just raised an eyebrow in superior, smirking a little. “I think I’m the one person in this school who’s willing to admit that your pitiful excuse for a mohawk looks makes it look like you have a penis on your head. Of course, everyone is *thinking* it…” He laughed as Noah gaped at him, apparently unable to come up with a comeback to that.

“Well, get gone, and take your hair-dick with you.”

Dave watched with more than a little glee as Noah’s face turned red and he stormed off, leaving Dave in peace.

“Thanks, man,” Dave said, turning back to Azimio. He glanced down at his lunch tin. “My Pops must have forgotten to pack me lunch.” He let out a nervous chuckle. “He can be kinda forgetful.”

“Right,” Azimio said, looking a little doubtful, then he gave a shrug, smiling at Dave. “Hey, you wanna come over to my place after school? Our housekeeper, Lisa, makes the awesomest cookies.”

Dave’s mouth watered at the thought. “That would be really cool, man.”

 

“Shit, dude, I knew something was off from the first time I met ya,” Azimio said, leaning into Dave in a way he never would have if they were in public. “Who the hell forgets to pack their kid lunch, especially on the first day of school? Not my folks, and they were busy as hell!” He shook his head. “I almost said something after the thing with your hands, man. I’d made up my mind. I figured that if the nameless bastard who treated you like shit was willing to practically destroy your hands, there was no telling what he’d do next. I made it all the way into the nutcase counselor’s office, sat down in the damn chair, opened my mouth to say that somebody, somewhere was hurting you… And I chickened out. I just kept seeing how pissed you were when I said you should go to the doctor, about how you practically bit my head off at the idea, and I chickened out. Too afraid you’d be angry at me. Told psycho counselor that I was worried I’d knocked up my sister.”

Dave couldn’t help but let out a laugh. “Dude, you don’t got a sister.”

Azimio’s lip curled up in amusement. “Yeah, but she don’t know that. The sad thing is? She had a goddamn pamphlet to give me. ‘Oh no, I’m having my relative’s baby!’ it said. A primer on incestual relationships.” He sighed. “But I was a coward.”

“Man, it wasn’t your job to do anything,” Dave said gently, giving Azimio’s shoulders another squeeze. “I… I just can’t believe that you were really so worried about losing me as a friend, to be straight with you. I figured it wouldn’t be much of a loss, not having some poor loser tagging along behind you.”

Azimio shook his head. “You really have no idea that anybody gives a shit, do you man? I mean, this isn’t just you being dense. You, honest to God, don’t know that you matter to anybody out there.”

“That’s not true,” Dave protested, though a little voice in his head shouted that it was very, very true. It sounded disturbingly like Kurt Hummel.

“Yeah, okay, whatever,” Azimio said tiredly, sounding about as convinced of that as he had been about Dave spilling coffee on his hands. “Just… please, buddy, I can’t take it no more. Help me out here. It’s driving me crazy, sitting back and watching while you hurt.” He laughed, but there was no humor in it. “I have a game I play, man. I don’t know why I do it. I guess to try and punish myself for being such a pussy. But I play it at night, when I’m lying in bed in the dark. Do you wanna know what it’s called?”

Dave wasn’t entirely sure he wanted to know what Azimio did in bed at night, but he said, “What?”

Azimio looked down. “I call it ‘Guess How.’ I lay in bed, and I think about what you looked like that day, and I try and guess how it happened. Half the time I can’t even imagine. Like the burned hands. Or the time you had all those stitches on your back… God, I couldn’t even begin to guess what made those cuts…”

“Coat hanger,” Dave said quietly.

Azimio frowned, brow furrowing. “What?”

“A coat hanger. Unwind a wire coat hanger, hit someone with it… It can cut the skin pretty bad.”

Azimio actually shuddered. “See, I had no clue. Guess I’m not as creative as whatever fucker did that to you. I thought maybe someone had used a knife to cut you up. So I lay there, I try to guess what happened, and then I try to imagine what it would feel like. I try to imagine how fucking terrified I would be, how much it would hurt… Once I actually made myself cry, dude, though I know that makes me sound like a pussy. But I can’t really imagine. When I broke my arm playing basketball, it hurt so bad I thought I was going to die.” Azimio laughed. “And what a whiner I was. My poor mom wanted to kill me by the time that cast came off.”

Dave’s lips quirked up. “I remember. You were quite an ass, dude. Bitch, bitch, bitch.”

“Yeah. But then I thought about the time you came in and your face was like, destroyed. Your nose was a wreck and you’d lost *another* tooth, not that you can afford to lose any more, and I could tell something was wrong with your ribs ‘cause every time you took a breath I could see how much it hurt in your eyes. And I couldn’t even imagine how bad that had to feel, how much pain you were in. But you were back on the fucking football field a week later, in full pads, ready to ream some guys. And I didn’t know how.”

Dave shrugged. “It wasn’t so bad. I mean, I’ve had worse. I spent almost three weeks in a hospital once. They had to put metal in my jaw.”

Azimio’s eyes widened. “How…”

“Baseball bat,” Dave replied shortly. “My Pops has a good swing. Can hit one out of the park. Not so great for the face, though.”

“Right, yeah… I can see how that could be bad for the face.” Azimio said weakly, looking like he’d rather not have known. “So… So it was your dad that did all that stuff?”

“Not everything,” Dave said, shifting uncomfortably. “I was in a lot of foster homes, too. And… and some of it was from… other men.” The words sounded lame even to Dave.

“Other men?” Azimio’s voice was as tight as his shoulders, which was saying something because the boy was strung as tight as Dave had ever seen him, and something about his voice made Dave’s stomach lurch. Like he knew more than he was saying, like he’d guessed what Dave was and didn’t want to say it.

Dave looked away, staring over at the door. He had so many memories of doors. Watching them in fear, all night long, just praying that the knob wouldn’t turn…

He might as well tell Azimio. He would find out, anyway, from his parents, Dave was sure. Dave took a steadying breath and purposefully removed his arm from the other boy, scooting as far away as he could without falling off the bed. He wanted distance between them for this. “Okay, dude, I know this is nasty. I know I’m nasty, okay? I know, you don’t gotta tell me.” The last thing Dave wanted was to hear Azimio tell him. “I…” Might as well spit it out before he chickened out. “I’m a whore, dude.” The words tumbled out, almost too fast to hear, and Dave immediately wished he could take them back. Take them back and make them not real.

Dave held his breath, a thousand scenarios running through his, wondering what the boy formerly known as his best friend would have to say, imagining how much it would hurt, steeling himself not to burst into tears. And… Azimio began to cry. At first it was just one tear, running down his cheek. Then another followed, and another, until he was crying as hard as his mom had been earlier. Dave’s mouth dropped open. Whatever reaction he’d expected, it hadn’t been for Azimio to cry like a goddamn girl, tears running down his uber-masculine face.

“I know, man. I have known, for awhile,” Azimio said, rubbing viciously at the tears. “See what a coward I am? Do you see now? I fucking knew, man. My dad makes over two million bucks a year, I knew you was standing on street corners, and I didn’t do nothin’.”

Dave shook his head, not understanding, not comprehending. Was he really saying what Dave thought he was? How, how, *how* could Azimio have known? “What? How could you possibly know?”

Azimio looked up at him miserably. “You remember last Christmas, D?”

Dave furrowed his brow. Was that the year he knocked over the tree? No, that had been the year before… Last Christmas he’d been with the Meloney family. Only he hadn’t actually been there because Mr. Meloney was a touchy-feely in all the wrong ways. He’d been staying at a shelter near his Pops’ place. The shelter… His eyes widened as a memory washed over him. He’d been sitting outside the shelter with no coat on, fruitlessly trying to convince some of his gangbanger buddies that ATMs were specially made so it was impossible to put them in the back of a pickup and drive off with them when the Adams family showed up. Azimio had been complaining loudly about wasting the precious time that he could be spending playing World of Warcraft working at a shelter. Mrs. Adams had stopped to talk to his ‘banger buddies, always the sweetheart looking to save the lost souls, while Dave, not wanting to them to see him like that, had pretended that he was passed out from liquor, hiding his face under his arm.

“You think I wouldn’t recognize your fast ass? I didn’t know what to do, man.” Azimio’s voice sounded strained. “It was obvious you didn’t want us to know, ‘cause I could tell that you weren’t really unconscious, that you were faking it—you were bunched up way too tight, all tense and shit. I didn’t know if I should talk to you or keep my mouth shut. So I did what I always did, AKA, nothing.” He rubbed his forehead tiredly. “But I was curious, so next day I drove over there again and asked about you. ‘Big D,’ they called you. Said you work the streets for your dad. I didn’t even know what that meant. A twelve year old girl with too much makeup and a mini skirt had to fucking spell it out for me.” Azimio shuddered. “Told me that if I was looking for boy love, I should head over to Riverdale St, that I might find ya there. So I went. Cruised around for about an hour, flirted with some chicks who were high as kites, then I saw ya. You were leaning against an empty old building in a muscle tee and some slashed up jeans. I just sat there and watched you for what seemed like forever, trying… trying to convince myself that it wasn’t what it looked like, that you weren’t there for *that.* Then…” Azimo’s voice cracked. “Then some middle aged dude walked up, talked to you for a few, and you got in his car and drove off.” Azimio let out a choked sob. “I sat in my overpriced sports car and cried. Then I turned my coward ass around and went home, feeling like shit. God, I was a total prick that year, cussing my parents out and slamming the door in carolers’ faces and kicking my presents. Bu what I really wanted to do was kick myself for being too afraid that you might hate me to tell my folks what was going down.” He laughed dully. “God, they’re going to kill me when they find out what a shallow, stupid asshole I was.”

Dave stared at Azimio in disbelief, hands gripping the covers beside him tightly as he tried to process what he’d heard, words slowly falling into place. “You… you knew about me, man?”

Azimio nodded, looking guiltier than Dave had ever seen him.

“And you didn’t rat me out ‘cause you didn’t wanna lose me?”

Azimio nodded again, dropping his eyes to the floor.

Dave took a deep breath, trying to keep his voice from shaking. “Z, I don’t mean to sound creepy, but that’s probably the nicest thing anybody’s ever said to me, dude.”

Azimio looked up sharply, blinking at the sad smile on Dave’s face. “What?”

Dave laughed tiredly. “You say you were being a coward, I say you were being my friend. That you would go through so much shit just to make sure you didn’t lose me as your friend… That means something. Look, I don’t care what the Good Intentions Committee down there thinks. You did what you thought *I* would *want.* That’s not being cowardly, that’s being my bro.” 

Dave moved back over to Azimio and, when his friend didn’t pull away, he put his arm back over his shoulders. “Let them bitch about right and wrong and moan about what should have been and go on and on about how if I had just *told* someone, everything would have be different.” Dave snorted. “As if I never told anybody. How do they think I kept getting taken away from my Pops, ‘cause I wrote so many love sonnets about him that CPS got worried? Yeah, I’ve hidden a lot of shit and protected my Pops way more than he deserves. But they’re damn naive if they think I never told *anyone.* My social worker knew. My neighbors knew. My landlord knew. Hell, the homeless people who hung out at the local shelters knew. I’m pretty sure that even the nurse at *school* knew. Lots of people knew. Didn’t change nothing. They all want to do ‘what’s best for me,’” Dave made a face, “but they don’t give a shit what I think, because they know they’re right and I’m wrong. Funny thing is, that’s exactly what my Pops would say before he beat me. You were trying to do what you thought *I* wanted. And fuck them if they don’t get it. You can’t even…” His voice cracked a little and he had to clear his throat before he speak again. “You can’t even imagine how much it means to me that you care so much, man. And not because I’m some poor, sad, pity case who needs taking care of, but because you really want me for a friend. ‘Cause you care more about who I am than what some fucker did to me.” His voice caught again. “I… I don’t think there’s anybody else like that, man.”

It was so strange, seeing Azimio’s face stained with tears. “You’re my bro, man,” he said, voice sounding a little desperate. “We’re bros.”

“Bros,” Dave echoed, lifting his fist, a smile spreading across his face as Azimio’s fist bumped against it, a feeling of warmth growing in his chest. No matter what happened, he’d know there was at least one person out there who saw him as more than a pity case. Fuck what everyone thought. Azimio hadn’t been a coward. Azimio had been a *friend.*


	19. The Ones We Love

"Okay, boys, I think it's time for us to discuss what's going to happen." Mrs. Adams was clearly wearing her Attorney at Law hat, and Kurt thought it was a fabulous hat, indeed. He did love a woman in charge.

It was bright and early Sunday morning, sunshine illuminating the spotless living room. You never would have guessed that just last night an enormous Christmas tree had been toppled in this very space. The Adams' housekeeper certainly deserved her pay.

Mrs. Adams had dragged them all out of bed, despite the fact that they'd only gone to bed a few hours before, a big smile on her face. Now they were seated on the sofa, Dave in the middle with Kurt and Azimio on either side. Dave was wearing jeans and a t-shirt, looking at least half-awake as he idly sifted through the backpack of what he called his "emergency clothes" that Burt had retrieved from his gym locker at school with the help of Mr. Schue's keys, but Azimio was still in his flannel pajamas, yawning widely and rubbing at his eyes.

Kurt was up and at 'em himself, though he'd been forced to cut his moisturizing routine in half, but Mrs. Adams had seemed very excited about what she had to tell them, excited enough for him to conclude that two fragrant rinses instead of his usual five was enough for today. He was currently hard at work filing down a nail that had gotten snagged on Dave's stolen hoody last night, doing his best to shape it into something tolerable until he could get to the nail salon for an emergency manicure. Of course, dealing with attempted suicides and jail sentences took precedent, but nails were certainly up there.

"You mean the part where I'm going to go to jail, do not pass Go, do not collect anything but a roll of toilet paper and some mouthwash?" Dave said dryly, though at least he was making an attempt at humor. And it wasn't one hundred percent self-deprecating this time, so that was a step forward, right?

"You're not going to jail, David," Mrs. Adams said seriously, though her face was still glowing.

Dave snorted softly, shaking his head, and she reached out across the coffee table to touch him gently on the knee. He didn't flinch, but he did eye it like it was something nasty. A dead fish maybe? Or a WalMart sweater?

"I'm serious, David. You're not going to jail, and neither are Kurt or Noah. In fact, Noah is being released to his mother this morning."

"Seriously?" Azimio said, looking happier than Dave, who was still sifting through his bag, refusing to look anyone in the eye. "That's awesome! How did that happen?"

"There are some advantages to being on the city council," Mr. Adams said as he stepped into the room wearing an expensive looking bathrobe and balancing a tray of muffins on his arm. Banana nut, and homemade, from the looks of them. Oh the joys of the one percent. The first thing Kurt was doing when he became rich and famous was hiring domestic help.

Mr. Adams set them gently down on the coffee table, flashing a perfect smile at them. "The main benefit being the country clubs you're eligible to join! Let's just say that I had a talk with the judge this morning. She a wonderful lady, always par for the course. An excellent golfer. Has flawless form. Also, Dr. Batterhorn was more than happy to join us in a little conference call and, after some serious discussion, she has agreed that the charges all around will be reduced to simple assault."

Kurt blinked. "And… this is a good thing?"

"Oh yes," Mrs. Adams said, smiling. "It's just a ticket, dear. Nothing that will show up on your record, even. Now, since Dave and Noah have previous violations, they will also be doing six weeks of community service, and David will be required to attend therapy. So, basically, we're home free on that front!"

Dave finally looked up, looking less than ecstatic. "Thanks, I guess. Who knew I had a get out of jail free card in my back pocket?" He shook his head. "But let's face it. It's just a matter of time. Picking up trash off the river banks and talking to a head doctor can't fix that. I'll be back behind bars soon enough." He pulled out an oversized black pencil bag from his backpack—or maybe a small toiletries case?—and let the backpack drop to the floor.

"Dave," Mrs. Adams said, looking pained. Kurt knew the feeling. "Please don't talk like that, sweetie. We're gonna help you."

Kurt reached out to take Dave's hand but the boy pushed him away, and Kurt pulled his hand back to his chest, a little hurt by the glare Dave was shooting him out of the corner of his eye. Great, it looked like they were back to square one on the sexuality thing.

"Yeah, man," Azimio added, reaching over to punch his friend playfully in the arm. "It'll all be cool." Dave stared at the ground. "Right man?" Azimio said, started to look worried. "You know it's gonna be okay now, yeah? Yeah"

Dave finally gave him a short nod, though it was pretty obvious he was just trying to shut Azimio up. He carefully unzipped the little black bag and pushed the muffin plate to the side, clearing the space on the coffee table before him.

"We'll be contacting social services in the morning about that awful social worker of yours," Mrs. Adams said, her glow somewhat faded. No doubt she had expected a better reception of her news. "That woman should really be fired. What was her name?"

"The Bitch?" Dave said dryly, making Azimio snort in amusement. Dave pulled a small toothbrush out of his little bag, setting it on the coffee table.

"I think that's probably her title, actually," Mr. Adams replied, earning himself a smack from Mrs. Adams.

"Oh hush, Christopher!"

A little bottle of toothpaste followed the brush. Then travel sized deodorant, a piece of soap, a pack of condoms, burn cream, Band-Aids. Wow. Dave's little bag was well stocked.

"I guess the real question is, where will you go, Dave?" Mrs. Adams' voice was even, though you could tell from the way she was clutching her husband's hand that she was excited to get to the punchline, which was, undoubtedly, them pronouncing that their home was his, begin tears and hugs and smiles. From the way Dave's lip was twitching, Kurt was pretty sure that it wasn't going to go down like that.

Dave shrugged his shoulders almost lethargically. "I guess I'll go home." He added a lighter, a can of chewing tobacco, and a pocket knife to his pile.

Azimio's brow furrowed. "What you mean, man?"

Dave dropped a tube of Astroglide next to the condoms then… a picture of his father? Yeah, that was definitely the man who'd barged into the visitor's room at the juvie facility, albeit a few years younger. But his teeth were just as yellow, his beard just as rough, and his eyes just as mean. Why the hell did Dave have a picture of that asshole? It had better be for playing darts with, because right now Kurt would love to put one in the bastard's head.

The picture fluttered down to the coffee table and Dave cocked his head to the side, inspecting his little pile for a moment, before he began methodically placing each item back into the bag.

What was this, some strange PTSD reaction? Pack and unpack items over and over again? Kind of like rocking back and forth? Okay, maybe not.

"What is that?" Kurt questioned as Dave dumped the condoms back in the case.

"Survival kit," he said shortly. "You know, for surviving."

"I would assume that's what a survival kit is for," Kurt said dryly, though what he really wanted to do was demand why Dave though he'd need a kit like that. He wouldn't need tiny toothpastes and lube to survive any more. And he sure as hell wouldn't need a picture of his father. They were going to take care of him now. *Kurt* was going to take care of him.

"I didn't know you chewed tobacco, dude," Azimio said, obviously as thrown off by this strange little display as Kurt had been.

Dave reached out silently and picked up the tin, popping off the top. Inside was a wad of one dollars bills, just sort of stuffed in there.

"Oh."

He put the lid back on the tin with a popping sound and dumped it into the bag.

Mrs. Adams smile was looking a little strained by now. "Anyway, we were thinking you could stay—"

"I'm going back to my Pops' place."

Kurt blinked. What the hell? "Excuse me?" Kurt said in disbelief, staring at Dave like he'd shown up to football practice in an Armani suit.

Dave shrugged. "I mean, I know you all want me to stay here, or at Kurt's place, or whatever. But I don't wanna stay with you guys. That shit never works out." His voice hitched slightly and Kurt couldn't help but shudder at the memory of Dave, clutching his head in his hands, whispering how they never wanted him and it was all his fault. Seriously, what kind of system did the government have set up? Kurt couldn't even imagine what it would feel like to be shuffled off to person after person, doing your very best to please them no matter how evil or sick they were, only to be cast off again and again.

"Dave," Kurt said slowly, "this isn't going to be like before."

The boy shot him a derisive look. "Uh-huh. Look, I'm going home, to my Pops."

"Like hell you are," Kurt snapped back, adrenaline rising at the mere thought of that bastard's hands anywhere near Dave ever again.

"Dave," Mrs. Adams said, her voice careful. "You… you're not going to be able to go back to your father."

Kurt grabbed the picture from Dave's little pile, resisting the urge to rip it into pieces. "Tell me, why is this in your *survival* kit?"

"I dunno," Dave snapped back, looking kind of pissed. "'Cause he's my dad? And I love him? You do get that, right, Kurt? Pops is my *father*, okay? Maybe he's not always nice. Hell, maybe he's a goddamn son of a bitch. But no matter what he does, that doesn't change the fact that he's my dad! That he's the man who raised me, who kept me around after my Momma ran off to God knows where."

"Yeah, kept you around to hurt you," Kurt said, exasperated. "Some father. The kind of stuff he did to you? That is *not* the sort of thing you forgive people for, Dave."

Kurt's eyes widened as Dave practically bared his teeth. "Don't high sight with me, Kurt! Maybe it's not the kind of thing a queen like *you* would forgive someone for, but not everybody's on a fancy pedestal like you are! You know, for someone who spent *just* as much time calling me a fat Neanderthal as I spent calling you a girly faggot, you sure do ride a damn high horse, Kurt Hummel."

Kurt's mouth dropped open at the words, a hurt look coming over his face as the words pretty much punched him in the gut. Dave was angry at *him*, the person who was trying to *help* him instead of the sick asshole who'd spent his whole life beating him? "Dave, I'm trying to help you… Don't you see? That man doesn't love you! Don't you get it? He doesn't love you! He may be your father in a literal sense, but he's not your dad! Dads love you, and he doesn't love you at all!"

Dave angrily yanked the picture from Kurt's hand, pointedly turning so that all Kurt could see was his shoulder and back. "Go to hell, Hummel. What do you know?"

"Okay, let's calm down here," Mr. Adams said, holding up his hands. "Kurt, let's not attack Dave's father, okay?"

Kurt's mouth dropped open at the reprimand. Why the hell *shouldn't* they attack Dave's father? The man deserved nothing less.

"David," Mrs. Adams spoke up, her voice hesitant. "I know you love your father. But you have to admit that the things he's done… they're wrong. And he's dangerous, sweetie. I promise, we're not here to attack him, because we know you love him, but it's a fact that he's dangerous, and I think you agree on that point with us."

"The whole world is dangerous," Dave replied gruffly, shoulders hunching.

"It's big of you, to be able to forgive him for the things he's done, it really is," Mr. Adams said, though there was a pained look on his face. "The problem is that he's not sorry. You forgive him, have always forgiven him, but he doesn't want to be forgiven. He's not sorry. And he's not going to stop the things he does."

Mrs. Adams nodded her agreement. "He's a pedophile, honey. He's prostituted at least one minor… Who knows if you're the only one? There could be other kids out there he's abused. We can't let someone like that stay on the streets. It's our duty to keep children safe. And, in order to do that, we need to stop men like your father.

Dave stilled, breath slowing, a sheen of sweat appearing on his brow. "What… what are you saying, exactly?"

Mr. Adams wrapped an arm around his wife, hugging her close. "We're saying that we're going to have to make sure your father is prosecuted, David." He held up a hand as Dave started to speak, a wild look on his face. "You won't have to testify, not against your own father. We'll make sure of that."

Dave's shoulders were so tense they looked like they were about to snap. "You're sayin' that you're gonna put my Pops in jail." The words were tight, harsh.

Mrs. Adams took a deep breath, letting it out in a whoosh. "That's right, sweetie. I… I'm very sorry."

"I'm not," Kurt muttered, earning him a glare from pretty much everyone in the room. But it was true. He wasn't sorry. Prison was better than that brute deserved. Hopefully his cell mate would get wind of the fact that the man was a child rapist and slice his throat in his sleep. Maybe Tiny Tom had a big brother in adult lockup who could do the deed.

Dave leaned back in his seat, looking a little pale. "But my Pops… you know he needs me. He can't get along without me."

Kurt wasn't sure what, exactly, that had to do with his father going to prison, but… "Dave, he's a grown man. He needs to face the consequences of his own actions. It's not your job to protect him."

Dave dropped his head, a lost look on his face. "I… Wow." He lifted his head again, rubbing at his face with the base of his palms. Kurt thought he saw a tear spill down his cheek. "I… I need…" His voice cracked. "I… I'm gonna go to the bathroom." He stood abruptly, his little black bag clutched to his chest like it was a baby's blankie. "Just… gonna go to the bathroom. Yeah." His voice sounded hollow.

"Okay, okay, Dave take as much time as you need," Mrs. Adams said soothingly as Dave climbed over Azimio's legs and sort of stumbled his way toward the bathroom.

"I just don't get it," Kurt said once Dave was out of sight, shaking his head. "Why does he want to go back to that man? The bastard did nothing but hurt him. He raped him, for God's sake! He sold him on the street, multiple times a night, his whole childhood! He beat him and burned him and… and… Hell, he probably did things that I can't even imagine!"

"He's loves him, Kurt," Mr. Adams said, staring sadly down at the muffin in his hand. "No matter what he's done, Dave considers that man his father. In his mind, everyone abandoned him. His mother, his foster parents, everyone. Except his father."

"But his father obviously doesn't love him," Kurt said, squeezing his thighs in frustration.

"But what's love?" Azimio said, voice quiet. "I mean, you and I know what love is 'cause we've seen it. I think to Dave… I think to Dave the fact that his dad has never thrown him away *is* love."

"But *we* love him," Kurt said emphatically, gesturing vaguely at their little gathering. "*This* is love. Why doesn't he see that?"

"I don't know, hun," Mrs. Adams said, shaking her head. "I just don't know."

They sat in silence, just sort of staring at one another. What was there to say? Kurt couldn't even begin to imagine what it was like to be Dave. To be so desperate for love that you'll pay any price for even a glimpse of it.

Kurt had so much to be thankful for. He didn't believe in God, but he did know that he was lucky. It was so easy to overlook the best things in your life, letting silly stuff like solos from 'Wicked' or jocks TPing your house or even a closeted bully kissing you in the bathroom blind you to the things you should *really* be grateful to have. A comfortable home. As much food as he could eat, including top shelf French cuisine. Warm clothing. Money to spend on frivolous things. A back that had never felt the sting of a belt. A body that had never been raped. A father who really, truly loved him.

How easy would it have been for him to end up in Dave's shoes? A chance of birth. What would he be like if he'd been beaten for looking at his father wrong or molested to help pay the rent? Would he be like Dave, or would he be in an asylum somewhere? Kurt guessed the latter, because he couldn't even imagine handling it. And poor Dave didn't even know anything else. He loved the man he freely admitted was a hateful, hurtful, disgusting bastard. He honestly loved him and, for the life of him, Kurt didn't know why.

Except… Would he love his father if he hurt him? Burt Hummel was a rough, strong American man, but he had never put a hand on his son. But what if he had? What if the death of Kurt's mom had sent him into some kind of downward spiral, leaving him to drown himself in drink. What if he'd taken out his pain on Kurt? It was hard enough to imagine his dad hitting him, and he couldn't bear to even try to think what it would be like if he did anything more intimate. But would Kurt still love him? He just didn't know.

"Excuse me, Christopher?" Kurt started slightly at the slightly accented voice, turning in his seat to see the Adams' housekeeper was standing at the door, a puzzled look on her face. "Did you call a cab?"

Mr. Adams' brow furrowed. "No, Rosa, why?"

She glanced behind her, frowning. "Well, there was one out front. Maybe it was for a neighbor. Let me see…" She ducked out for a moment then returned, shrugging. "It's gone now. Sorry, I didn't mean to interrupt you."

"Oh my God," Azimio said, looking like someone had hit him in the face with a baseball bat.

"What?" Mr. Adams said, frowning at his son. "What's wrong, Azimio?"

Azimio gestured around, voice panicked. "Dad… Where's Dave?" He stood abruptly, turning in a circle. "Dave? Yo, man!"

Kurt shot up from the couch, practically leaping over it as he ran over to the bathroom, yanking open the door. His heart was pounding way, way too fast as he glanced around the empty bathroom, stomach turning. A cool breeze hit his face. A cool breeze blowing in from the open window. Outside the trees danced and there was a clear set of footprints in the slowly melting snow.

Kurt covered his mouth with his hands, holding back a sob.

Dave was gone again.

o o o

The door to the apartment creaked as he opened it and Dave winced at the sound. The last thing he wanted was to wake up his Pops if he was sleeping. That never ended well. In fact, it usually ended rather painfully. He closed the door behind him as softly as he could, gritting his teeth when it creaked again. He really needed to oil that damn thing.

Despite being mid-morning, the room looked like someone had picked up dusk and dropped it in the apartment. There were heavy blankets covering the two small windows and the lights were out, leaving the room dark and colorless. It certainly smelled like home, a sweet mixture of liquor and vomit, and it was pretty damn cold, which probably meant the electricity was out.

A quick glance around the room confirmed that it was empty, the only piece of furniture being his Pops' old Lazy Boy, surrounded in a explosion of empty beer cans and bottles wrapped in brown paper. Their shitty box TV with its rabbit ear antennas was off, but that was to be expected if Pops hadn't paid the damn bills.

Dave reached out and flipped the light switch a couple times, despite the fact that it was already in the 'on' position, confirming his suspicions. Yeah, his old man had definitely spent the cash for utilities on booze again.

Dave moved through the mess of pizza boxes and bottles. There was no point in even trying to be careful where he stepped. Eventually he'd hit a pile of vomit. That was just life with Pops. You needed a strong stomach.

The kitchen was tiny, half the size of the Adams' master bathroom, and pretty much worthless considering that the electricity was out. Dave tried the faucet, just for kicks, but it just sputtered out a few drops before running dry. *All* the bill money had gone to booze then. God, he didn't even want to see what the toilet looked like.

There was only one other place for his Pops to be. The man was definitely in, because the door had been unlocked and he would never risk his precious TV by leaving the latch undone, so he had to be in the bedroom. The door seemed particularly ominous today, like if he opened it he would find the monster in his closet.

God, why was he even here? Dave palmed his face tiredly, wishing he was still in his warm bed back at the Adams' house. And why the fuck wasn't he? What was his game here? To save his Pops? What was he supposed to tell him? 'Oh, my friends are looking for you. They wanna put you in jail. Better run, Pops!' Talk about a death sentence. But that was exactly what he was gonna have to tell him, wasn't he.

It wasn't like his Pops really deserved his help. Dave knew good and well that the man was a shit head. But he hadn't ratted him out when his face had been so beaten in that they had to do two surgeries adding metal to his jaw, even with the officer who had found him practically begging him to write down the name of his attacker. He'd backed up his Pops then, and he'd do it now. The real question was why.

'He doesn't love you. Don't you get it? That man doesn't love you!'

Dave swallowed down a lump in his throat, trying to ignore the way the words clawed at his heart. It had hurt, bad, to hear Kurt say those words like the were goddamn fact, and that he was a stupid fucking idiot for not knowing it.

'Don't you see? He doesn't love you.'

Fuck Kurt Hummel. Fuck him to hell. He had a million people who loved him. He didn't know what it was like, to be tossed away like garbage over and over again. He took love for granted, and if it wasn't perfect then it wasn't good enough for him. But Dave had to take what he could get. Something was wrong with him, there had to be. People didn't love him like they loved Kurt. And his Pops… his Pops did the best he could. Everybody got angry, everybody fought. That didn't mean that they didn't love you. His Pops loved him, deep down. He had to, or he wouldn't have kept him around. Right?

Dave took a steadying breath and turned the knob on the door, opening it slowly. It was even darker in here than the living room since Pops had boarded up the windows completely. He took a step in, careful to breath through his mouth to avoid the stench of booze and vomit with a tang of piss. The room was small and the mattress on the floor filled most of it. The mattress itself was what reeked. They'd had that same mattress for at least five or six years and it was decorated just about every bodily fluid you could imagine.

His Pops was laying on his side, passed out, a bottle in his left hand. Dave knelt down on the edge of the mattress, reaching out to pry it away from him. He froze as his Pops made a sound of annoyance, shoulders tensing as he readied himself for a blow, but after a moment his old man slipped back into sleep.

Dave managed to pull the bottle of cheap whiskey out of his hand. It was empty, so he tossed it off the mattress so it could spend some quality time with all its brothers and sisters. He then tugged his shirt off and carefully settled himself on the bed, lying on his side so that he was face to face with his sleeping Pops.

His old man moved in his sleep, reaching out and putting an arm around Dave, tugging him tight to his body. A single tear ran down Dave's cheeks as he buried his face in his Pops' chest, feeling strangely safe in his old man's embrace. Why couldn't it always be like this, his old man holding him close, keeping him warm against his big, hairy body? Why wasn't Dave worthy of this when his Pops was awake?

His old man stirred again and Dave's heart sped up as he tried to guess what his Pops would do when he woke up to find his boy lying next to him. Beat the shit out of him for waking him up was one option. Fucking him, another. It really depended on whether or not his booze haze would allow him a good erection or not.

Pops liked to fuck him in the mornings. Or whatever time a day was equivalent to the morning for his old man.

"Mmmm, Davey?" His Pops' eyes opened and he squinted at Dave, pupils so dilated that you could hardly see the brown ring around them. He let out a groan, squeezing them shut again.

"Hey, Pops," Dave said quietly, sucking in a sharp breath as his Pops' embrace went from comfortable to the edge of painful.

"What you doing here, boy?" The words were slurred, but they still sounded menacing.

Uh, trying to save him from prison? Faced with his actual Pops, Dave wasn't sure he really wanted to answer that question. "I… I just wanted to see you, Pops." He held his breath as his old man studied him with sharp eyes.

After a long moment his Pops' arm loosened and Dave let out a little sigh of relief."

"How'd you get your fat ass outta jail, boy?" He questioned, the words still thick and awkward on his tongue.

Talk about a loaded question. How had he gotten out of jail? "I fucked my way out," Dave replied softly, a wave of depression rolling over him at the truth of the words.

His Pops laughed loudly, then grimaced at the sound. He was definitely hung over. "Oh yeah? Don't surprise me none, you whore." It almost sounded like a pet name.

The arm disappeared from around Dave's waist and his Pops stretched, rolling his shoulders. "Get on your face."

Dave hesitated, heart speeding up. "A-actually, Pops… I… I came here to tell ya something."

His old man rolled his eyes. "Shut up and get on your fucking face, kid." He pushed himself up on his knees, rubbing at the noticeable erection in his boxers. When he spoke again his voice was a little kinder. "I'm not interested in talking right now, boy. On your face."

"Yeah, okay," Dave mumbled, rolling onto his belly and grimacing at the smell of the mattress.

"Atta boy," his Pops sad, like he was a normal dad hanging out with his son. But then, this was normal for them, wasn't it?

"But I gotta tell you somethin' too, Pops," Dave said, turning his face to the side as his old man yanked down his jeans and boxers in one hard tug that made Dave's dick ache as the rough material scraped across him.

"I said that I ain't interested in talking now, son," he said idly as he pried Dave's butt cheeks apart.

"Got any lube, Pops?"

A thick finger, definitely dry, began to press into his ass.

"Nope. Sorry, kid."

"S'okay." He wished idly that he hadn't left his survival kit in the mailbox downstairs. He hadn't wanted his Pops to see it and take all his stuff, but he could have used it now.

Oh, well. It wasn't the first time.

Dave made a small sound of pain as one finger became two, holding his hole open. Pops made a slurping sound, like he was hacking up a spit wad, then he felt a wetness inside of him.

The two fingers slid inside him, with less friction this time.

"Better?"

"Yeah."

His Pops continued to play with him for a few minutes, then grabbed Dave by his hair, pulling him enough so he could look him in the eye. "Wanna suck it first?"

His Pops must have woken up in a good mood.

"Yes, Sir," Dave said gratefully. His Pops' weight shifted on the bed and his old man shoved his dick in Dave's face.

"Go on, then. Be quick about it, boy."

Dave pushed himself up on his forearms and dropped his head down on his Pop's erection, flexing his jaw and hacking a little as he tried to slick it up as much as he could, especially on the head. After a minute or two his Pops pulled out and Dave dropped back down on his face. "Thanks," he said quietly.

"No problem." His cheeks were spread apart again and he felt the tip of his old man's cock pressing in. The spit helped, but it still wasn't lube, and Dave took a deep breath and held it as he was spread wider and wider. He forced himself to relax his ass as much as he could, trying to keep the muscles from clenching up, but it was hard to do.

Dave let out a grunt as his old man inched in. The feeling of having something so far up there always felt strange, no matter how many times you'd done it.

"You know, Pops," Dave said, trying his best to collect his thoughts while his Pops pushed into him, "with all the shit that's gone down this week, me going to jail and everything, maybe we should find a new place. Maybe somewhere else, like Columbus?"

His Pops snorted. "What about yer fancy school, boy? Thought you wanted to graduate or whatever." He slid in another inch.

"Yeah, well, I… I decided it ain't worth it."

Dave's bottom ached, a cross between a pounding pulse and a burning sensation. His dick was limp underneath him, dry fuckings having never been his favorite thing, and his hands were starting to hurt from clenching them so tightly. The only pleasant part about it was the way his Pops was stroking his hands down Dave's back and buttocks in a gentle way. That felt kind of nice. Maybe that was what fags liked. Just having somebody touch them, make them feel a little less lonely.

"Here we goes," his Pops muttered. Dave, caught by surprise, let out a small cry as his Pops began to rut him in short, vigorous humps, hips rising and falling at a fast pace.

He took a steadying breath, closing his eyes. "So… what you say? Columbus?"

"I think…" His old man's hips moved even faster, the tip of his cock jamming down over and over again inside Dave. "I think there's no damn reason for me to pack my shit for Columbus just because you feel like takin' a road trip, boy."

The rhythm slowed as his Pops began to slide out almost all the way then back down in deep, aggressive strokes that made Dave's stomach roll. The sound of his Pops' hips slapping against his buttocks filled the silence.

After a couple of minutes Dave spoke up, voice timid. "Pops… I need to tell ya something." Maybe during a fucking wasn't the best time to spring this on him, but at least his Pops would be in a good mood. "My friends? The ones you saw at jail? The black folks? They… they were talkin' about how they were gonna put you in jail."

His Pops' thrusting came to a sudden halt. "What the fuck?" he said, yanking Dave up by the hair again. "What the fuck they think they gonna put me away for?"

Dave lifted his hips up, hid old man's cock sliding in a little deeper. "For this, Pops. For fuckin' me."

A dangerous look crossed his old man's face, but he released Dave's head. His voice was low and suspicious. "You go crying to those niggers, Davey?"

Dave shook his head as best he could with his face against the mattress. "No, Pops, I swear. Why would I go crying to them now? You're a fucking son of a bitch and sometimes I wanna kill your ass, but that don't mean I don't love you."

Dave grimaced as his old man's full weight was suddenly on him, pressing him down into the mattress, effectively binding him in place. His Pops' dick was buried balls deep and, considering that the man was damn big, that was saying something.

"You listen to me now," his old man said gruffly, pressing his face into Dave's neck, his beard tickling his shoulder. "You're my fucking kid. Mine. Those motherfuckers need to mind their own business or get a bus back to Africa." His fingers dug possessively into Dave's arms, hard enough to leave bruises. "You're *mine.*:

"Yeah," Dave agreed, swallowing hard. "I know."

His Pops made a huffing sound and pushed himself back up again, cock moving in and out of Dave again.

Dave lay there for another couple of minutes, listening mindlessly to the slap of his Pops' thrusts, then he spoke up, voice quiet. "Hey, Pops?"

There was a sigh from above him. "What?"

"Do ya… Do ya love me?"

Dave held his breath, the smell of sweat and sex filling his senses.

"What the fuck you ask me shit like that for?" his Pops said, laughing as he reached out and slapped Dave's ass, hard. "I know I love your tight asshole. Wouldn't mind if your pie hole was permanently shut, though." He paused. "'Course I guess I couldn't stick it in there if that happened."

"Yeah," Dave agreed, blinking back tears, Kurt's words running through his mind.

'Don't you see? He doesn't love you. That man doesn't love you!'

"But… seriously, Pops. Just tell me. You know I can take it. I won't break. Do ya love me?"

"Goddamn it, boy," his Pops snapped, sounding angry. His thrusts became more violent, nails suddenly digging into Dave's shoulders. "No, I don't fucking love you, you little shit." His dick drove in hard enough to make Dave whimper. "What you ever done but be a problem for me? You chased off your Momma! Not that she was such a good lay, but at least she had a twat. You're fat and whiny and the world would be better off without you in my opinion!" He laughed, loud and derisive. "There. You wanted the truth? You got the goddamn truth, boy! Now shut up already so I can finish!"

"Yes'sir," Dave said hoarsely, even as tears began to roll down his cheeks. "Sorry, Pops." He buried his face in the mattress, voice hardly more than a whisper. "I love you."

o o o

"Dammit!" Mrs. Adams said, slamming the phone back on the hook. Kurt was pretty sure it was the first time he'd heard her curse. "That horrible woman isn't answering!" She shook her head rapidly. "Caseworker, indeed! When I'm through suing her for neglect on David's behalf, she's going to need a caseworker herself!"

"Did you find anything, Dad?" Azimio asked worriedly, watching as his father across the wide, mahogany desk as the man continued to peck at the computer.

"All the addresses are old," Mr. Adams said tiredly. "Two were motels, and the managers didn't even remember them. Then an apartment complex that's apparently been renovated. And by renovated I mean knocked down and turned into a strip mall."

"We have to find him," Kurt said as he paced along the floor to ceiling bookshelves that made up one of the walls in Mr. Adams' study. "I would bet my Jimmys that he's gone back to that wretched father again! And you know I love my Jimmy Choo!"

"If this awful woman would pick up her phone, maybe we'd be able to find him!" Mrs. Adams said, glaring at the phone like it was the enemy here. "If it weren't Sunday we could have them trace his welfare checks, but everything is closed down today. Social services is on emergency only contact." She shook her head. "Not that his social worker has bothered to check her emergency calls!"

Kurt collapsed into one of the impressive looking leather chairs, burying his face in his hands. "I can't believe he ran off like that. Again! I don't understand it…"

"He loves his father, Kurt," Mrs. Adams said, moving from the edge of the desk to perch on the arm of Kurt's chair. A gentle hand stroked his head. "Love is not a logical thing."

Obviously not, or Kurt wouldn't be sitting here feeling as though his heart had been ripped out. Logically, Dave Karofsky was an asshole bully with chubby cheeks and considerable body odor. Logically Dave Karofsky was about as far from the Prince Charming that Kurt had spent his whole life dreaming about as Rachel Berry was from fashionable. Logically he shouldn't even *like* the boy. Yet all he wanted to do was sling his arms around that caveman's neck and hold him forever.

The doorbell rang, a series of musical chimes, and Kurt stood up, rubbing tiredly at his eyes. "That must be my dad with my stuff. Are you sure it's okay for me to stay here until we find him?"

"Of course, Kurt," Mr. Adams said, looking up from his web search. "You are welcome in our home anytime."

Kurt sniffled as he made his way down the hall to the Adams' beautiful winding staircase. Maybe he needed to rethink his plans for being a superstar. It looked like the city council was where the real money was.

He snagged a tissue from a box on the coffee table, using it to dab at his eyes, doing his best to wipe away the mascara streaks. His father was worried enough about him.

God, even the Adams' front door was impressive, something that Kurt had been too upset to think about last night. Double doors, at least eight feet tall, made out of some exotic looking wood with flowers and grapes carved on it. No wonder it had never mattered to them that Dave was poor. *Everyone* was poor compared to this family.

Kurt pulled open the door, a surprisingly easy feat considering its size, putting on the bravest face he could manage. "Hey, Dad—" He cut off abruptly, eyes growing huge at the sight before him.

Dave looked a little worse for the wear—Kurt was pretty sure he had somehow managed to get his shirt on backward—but overall he didn't see any bruises that hadn't been there when the boy left. "David?" he said in disbelief, voice cracking a little.

"H-hey, Kurt," Dave said in a shaky voice as he shuffled uneasily from foot to foot. He radiated nervous tension as he took a deep breath and let it out with a whoosh. "I-I dunno if I'm still welcome here…" His eyes dropped down to the mat sporting the word 'WELCOME' in fancy letters, then back up to Kurt's face. "…I mean, after talking to you like I did and taking off again and everything, but—"

Dave let out a yelp, stumbling a few steps backward as Kurt launched himself on the boy with a loud squeal. "Oh my God, Dave, you're all right!" He gave the boy a hard squeeze then leaned back a little, cupping Dave's face in his hands, eyes searching. "Are you, okay, Dave? Really? Oh my God, I was so scared. I'm so glad you're back."

Dave licked his lips nervously, eyes darting off to the side before coming back to meet Kurt's. "Then you're… you're not mad at me?" Dave's voice was painfully small, shoulders hunched down like he expected a beating.

"No," Kurt breathed, staring deep into Dave's brown eyes. "No, David. I am definitely not mad at you."

Kurt pressed his lips against Dave's, and the other boy made a small sound of surprise as Kurt kissed him deeply, wrapping his arms around his neck and holding him as close to his body as he could.

When his lungs were starting to burn and he couldn't hold his breath anymore, Kurt pulled back, panting slightly as he stared up at Dave, running a hand through the hair on the back of his head, cradling him. "Promise me you won't run away again, David," Kurt said, embarrassed by how his voice was still cracking. "Please, promise me." Tears welled up in his eyes. "Please promise me you won't run away."

Dave stared at him, his eyes wide and so, so vulnerable. "I… I promise, Kurt," he whispered, though there was a broken edge to the words. He paused for a moment, shoulders shaking, and Kurt realized the boy was holding back a sob. "I don't got any place to run to, anyway." A tear rolled down his cheek and Dave made a sound that could have been a laugh or a sob. "You were right. What you said. He doesn't love me." More tears poured down his face. "I… I don't think he ever has."

Kurt pulled Dave close to him, letting the boy bury his face in his shoulder. "It doesn't matter, Dave," he murmured, running his lips along the back of Dave's neck. "Because I love you. I really do. And I promise you, I always will."


	20. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And it is officially over! Thanks to everyone who reviewed while I wrote it and to everyone who reads it again on its new home at AO3! It's been a fantastic journey, albeit filled with much, much angst. And yes, I realize that the epilogue title is a little crude, LOL! (I never said I wasn't crude...)

"This is really not my color," Kurt said sourly as he stared at himself in the mirror. “Seriously not my color.”

"I thought black went with everything, Fancy?" Dave said, smirking as he glanced up from the issue of ‘Sports Illustrated’ he was perusing.

Kurt sighed heavily, rolling his eyes dramatically. "A fashionable boy needs a hint of color, David. " He gave a twirl, robe flying up around him like a petticoat. He’d really rather be wearing the petticoat. Why did graduation robes have to be so *drab*?

"Well, I like mine fine," Dave said dryly, tossing his magazine aside with a smile. “I think it’s a good look. Very respectable.”

Kurt abandoned the mirror, a warm feeling growing in his chest as he turned to study him. Dave had come so far from the angry, broken boy he'd been two years ago. It kind of made Kurt want to tear up. "I'm so proud of you," he murmured, as he untied his robe letting fall to the floor. He moved toward the bed, settling down next to Dave, snuggling up against him.

Dave put an arm around Kurt's shoulders, pulling him tight, and Kurt's breath hitched as he felt Dave's lips brushing the top of his head.

"Would it be too ego inducing if I said that you're the reason I'm here? "

Kurt smiled and nuzzled Dave's shoulder. "Give yourself some credit, sweetie. You got here yourself, and you overcame a lot of obstacles to do it."

That was an understatement. He’d more than overcome, he’d fucking conquered. It had been almost two years since Dave finally came to his senses and moved in with the Adams family, but they hadn't been easy. Dave may have escaped the abuse, but the scars were still there, and more than a few open wounds, too.

Thanks to Mr. Adams endless connections, Figgins had allowed Dave back in McKinley, but this time he didn’t have anything to hide, something that had dramatically improved his grades. Kurt supposed it had been somewhat difficult to fit homework in between the beatings and the whoring. The Adams had begun the lengthy adoption process immediately, making it very clear that they considered Dave one of their own; however, it had still taken over six months just to convince the boy that he wouldn't be tossed out with the trash at any moment. 

Dave’s ‘Pops’, as he’d always called him, was behind bars, where he very much belonged in Kurt’s not so humble opinion, but he knew that Dave still had that ratty old photo of the man taped to the back of a frame on his bedside table that sported a picture of him and Kurt at Breadstix on their first actual date. Kurt loved that picture, with Dave blushing deeply as Kurt kissed him on the cheek. He had promised Dave that night that he would do his best to understand how Dave felt about his father and do his best to support him, no matter what he felt personally. And that was what Dave had really needed. Support, love, and people who cared. 

“Seriously,” Kurt said, when Dave just sat there, playing idly with Kurt’s hair. “You have come so far, Dave. You should give yourself a little credit.”

“Yeah, I guess,” Dave said with a shrug, as if surviving sixteen years of fucking torture at the hands of the ones who were supposed to protect you was no big deal at all. “I just did what I had to do.”

More like, what he’d been forced to do. Kurt reached up to cup Dave’s face with his hand, pulling him into a kiss. Dave made a soft sound of pleasure as Kurt suckled his lip, sighing when the boy pulled away.

“You know, we’ve still got at least two hours until we have to leave for the ceremony,” Kurt said suggestively, pushing himself up on his knees and running a hand down Dave’s chest. 

“Kurt,” Dave said, sounding amused, “if Christopher walks in on us having sex one more time, I think he’s probably going to go into cardiac arrest. And Azimio says that I have to give him at least twenty-four hours warning so that he can be sure to have his headphones on and his iPod turned up before we start.”

“Oh, come on, Dave!” Kurt said, making a silly face. “After tonight, we are officially high school graduates! This is our last chance to make youthful love!”

“Baby, no offense, but they’re probably going to be carding you when you’re forty. I think we’ll be making youthful love for awhile.” A smile spread across his face as Kurt gave him a playful slap.

“How about you hush up and kiss me?” Kurt didn’t give him time to reply, straddling his lap and pushing a rough kiss on him. “That okay with you?” he questioned breathily as he pulled away.

Dave gave him a grin, reaching up to run a hand gently through his hair. “Yeah, that’s okay with me.” He leaned forward, his lips pressing hard against Kurt’s.

“You are so beautiful,” he whispered as he began to kiss along Kurt’s nose, making Kurt blush a little.

“It’s the beauty routines,” he said lightly. “You can’t beat ‘em.”

“No,” Dave said sincerely, pulling back to look him in the eye. “It’s just *you.*”

Kurt moaned as Dave leaned forward again and kissed him deeply, those big arms wrapping tightly around Kurt’s body, one hand slipping down to caress his ass.

“Feels so good,” he said, rolling his hips as as Dave kneaded his butt cheek. Kurt traced his lips along the other boy’s jawline, kissing gently at his ear. “Dave,” he said whispered, sliding a hand down the boy’s chest. “How about… How about you be on top this time?”

Dave went suddenly still, muscles tightening under Kurt’s touch. “Please, David?” Kurt said, heart speeding up a little. “You know I really want to…” He moved to kiss the other boy, sighing when Dave turned his head away.

“Y-you know I’m not really comfortable with that, Kurt,” Dave said, voice so low that Kurt could hardly hear him. His hand slipped back up Kurt’s body to settle on his waist.

“I know, sweetie,” Kurt said, reaching up to stroke Dave’s face. “I know that it scares you—“

“It doesn’t scare me,” Dave cut in, a scowl on his face.

Great. He’d struck the male ego. “Okay, maybe scared isn’t the right word,” Kurt said soothingly. “But you know that I *want* this, Dave.”

Dave rubbed at his face, looking tired. “I… I just don’t want to hurt you, Kurt,” he said in a voice so small that Kurt almost gave in. But today was a special day, a day to celebrate the things they’d done and the things they would do in the future. The things they would do together. He wanted to be with Dave, completely.

“Dave,” Kurt said seriously, “I promise that if you hurt me, even a little, I will tell you.” He caught the boy’s head between his hands, forcing him to look him in the eye. “This is about love, Dave, and I want to do it.”

Dave shifted uncomfortably, Adam’s apple bobbing as he took a nervous swallow. “I-I just don’t understand why you want to.”

Kurt raised an eyebrow. “Well, why do you want to with me?”

“Because… Because I love you, and I want to be with you.” Dave paused, a sheepish look on his face. “And because feeling you inside me is hot as hell.”

Kurt laughed, shaking his head. “So, don’t you think I want a chance to feel you inside me?”

“Kurt,” Dave said, brow furrowed in worry. “I… I just…”

“You don’t want to hurt me,” Kurt finished, giving him a small smile. “Dave, I know we’ve had this argument before, love.” He reached out, taking Dave’s big hands in his, giving them a squeeze. “But today is a special day, Dave. You’re doing the thing you’ve always dreamed of, the thing you worked so hard to achieve. And I want it to be a special day for *us*, too.” Kurt squeezed his hands again. “Please, David, let’s just try?”

Dave took a deep breath, staring down at their laced fingers. “You really want to, Kurt?” he asked in a small voice. He looked back up at him, eyes searching. “You really want to?”

“Yes,” Kurt whispered, leaning forward to brush his lips against Dave’s. “I really, really want to.”

“And… and you’ll tell me if I…” He made a face. “If I’m hurting you?”

“Of course I will, love,” Kurt assured him, smiling comfortingly. “I promise.”

Dave gave a deep chuckle. “Well, I’ve always found you to be pretty good at keeping your promises.” He gave a half shrug. “You kept my fat ass around after all.”

“Don’t self-deprecate, David,” Kurt said primly, making the other boy snort.

“I was just teasing, Fancy.” He reached out, touching Kurt’s collar. “I… I guess you should take that off.” A smile grew on his face as his hands fell to the waist of Kurt’s pants. “And these…”

Kurt smiled, a little wickedly. “I think that’s a good idea, Dave.” 

The other boy grinned and pulled his t-shirt over his head in a smooth, practiced motion. The muscles in his arms bulged, and Kurt wet his lips as he took in the boy’s strong upper body. Dave was a big boy. And Kurt liked big boys, he liked them very, very much.

Kurt shimmied out of his trousers faster than he would have thought possible, considering how tight they were, his cock twitching as he brushed his palm across it.

“C’mere,” Dave said as he kicked off his jeans, crawling toward Kurt in just his boxers. There was a noticeable bulge between his legs. Dave was a big boy indeed. 

“Catch me if you can,” Kurt replied with a laugh, crawling gracefully backward, making certain that his unbuttoned shirt framed his slim body as well as possible.

“I don’t need to catch you,” Dave said with a laugh. “The headboard’s about to do it for me.”

Kurt laughed as well, propping himself against the pillows leaning against said headboard. “Darn it, the bed fouled me again!”

“As if you really wanted to escape.”

Kurt giggled. “Well, it’s no communal shower.”

Dave shook his head with a grin. “You always gotta bring that one up, don’t you?”

“Hey,” Kurt said primly, “maybe I *wanted* to date Tiny Tom.”

Dave made a rude sound. “I thought Sammy was more your type.”

Kurt grimaced. “I do not date boys who remove genitalia with their teeth. It’s a hard and fast rule of mine.”

“I’m sure Sammy-Girl would be truly disappointed,” Dave said drly. “Now, c’mere, you.” He crawled forward, wrapping his arms around Kurt and pulling him tight, mouth covering his.

Kurt pressed his tongue deeply into Dave’s mouth, rolling his shoulders as the other boy tugged off his shirt, letting it fall to the mattress.

“How do you wanna do this?” Dave whispered into Kurt’s ear, his breath coming a little too fast. Kurt could feel him against his leg, already half hard.

“I don’t know,” Kurt admitted, feeling a bit breathless himself. “What do you think?”

Dave frowned a little, leaning back as if inspecting Kurt. “Lay down on your back,” he said finally, crawling backward so that Kurt could comply.

Kurt obeyed, smiling lasciviously up at Dave, wiggling his hips in a way he knew drove the boy crazy. “You mean like thiiiis?” Kurt said in an overly innocent voice, stretching his arms over his head.

“You are shameless,” Dave muttered, the grin on his face betraying his amusement. “Completely shameless.” He pulled open the drawer on the bedside table, pulling out a tube of lube and one of the half a dozen loose condoms they’d hidden in there. And also in the bathroom cabinet. And under a vase in the living room. And behind the breadbox in the kitchen, much to the dismay of the Adams’ housekeeper.

Dave popped open the tube with his teeth, a familiar sight, one Kurt saw at least a few times a week. Of course, it was usually followed by the boy slicking his fingers and putting them up his own ass, biting his lip in concentration as he prepared himself for Kurt.

It had been only in the last six months or so that Dave and Kurt’s relationship had bloomed beyond deep kisses and a few under the clothes gropes, but Kurt didn’t mind. The last thing he wanted to do was rush Dave. He couldn’t rush Dave, not if he really wanted to be with *Dave* and not the persona Dave so often took on to protect himself.

It was true that just a few weeks after they’d started dating, their kisses and petting *had* led to *something.* As in, Kurt had done something with someone, but it hadn’t been Dave. The big lughead had assured him, over and over again, that this was what he wanted, that he was ready, that it was fine… Then Kurt had slipped inside him and Dave had lain there in silence, eyes staring off at nothing while Kurt tried his best to engage him. Instead of passionate words of love, Kurt had gotten short, quiet responses to everything he said, Dave’s body language practically screaming for Kurt to finish up and get off of him.

Needless to say, it had pretty much ruined Kurt’s mood, cutting the encounter short. Then he’d had to sit through forty-five minutes of Dave apologizing for not being good, saying that he could do better, promising all sorts of things as long as Kurt didn’t leave him. Finally Kurt had burst into tears, unable to stand another moment of Dave’s desperate attempts to hold on to Kurt by offering him his body. They had spent the night clutched in each other’s arms, Kurt whispering into Dave’s ear, telling him over and over how much he loved him for him and how he only wanted to be with Dave when the boy was really, truly ready. In fact, he’d forced Dave to promise him that he wouldn’t offer to be with Kurt until he was really, truly ready. Kurt wanted Dave because he loved him, not because he wanted to fuck him.

It had been awhile before Dave was ready, but it had definitely been worth the wait. Dave still hadn’t let Kurt be bottom, but he had finally let the other boy take him in his mouth. It made Kurt a little antsy that Dave hadn’t wanted Kurt to do certain things, worried that deep down the boy found them abhorrent and was only doing them for Kurt’s sake; however, Dave seemed more than happy making love with Kurt. In fact, he wanted to do it as much as possible. Hence all the hidden condoms.

“All right, baby,” Dave said, voice soft as his hands slid under Kurt’s thighs, slowly spreading them up and apart. “Slide forward a little, okay?”

Kurt nodded as he scooted down the bed, butterflies in his stomach. “Is this good?”

Dave gave him a gentle smile. “Perfect.” He took a deep breath as he picked up the lube, slicking it liberally across his fingers. “Okay, I… I’m going to put my finger in you, all right? And if you want me to stop—at any time—just tell me and, by God, I will stop, okay?” He sounded worried and Kurt smiled up at him in an attempt to calm him down a little.

“I know that, Dave. I trust you.”

Dave’s shoulders tensed slightly at the words, eyes clouding over for a moment. Kurt winced, wondered what he was remembering. It was never something good. This happened occasionally. Someone would say or do something totally innocuous and Dave would sort of fade away for a moment, off into his strange land of nightmarish memories. But it would pass. It always did, and it happened less and less every day. It was just part of being with Dave.

“Okay,” Dave said softly, shaking his head as if to clear it. He reached down with one hand, stroking Kurt’s thigh. “Here we go.”

Kurt sucked in a breath as he felt Dave’s finger slide between his butt cheeks. The lube was cool and slick against his skin. A moment later he felt the tip of Dave’s finger pressing slowly, gently into Kurt’s hole.

Dave paused as a small sound escaped Kurt’s lips. “You okay, baby?”

“Yeah. Yeah. It’s just… a funny feeling.” He laughed, a little embarrassed. “That sounds stupid.”

Dave shrugged, looking a amused. “Nah. It *is* a funny feeling.” His finger slid in a little further, wiggling slightly, and Kurt gasped.

“Okay,” Dave murmured, “I’m gonna put another one in, okay?”

Kurt nodded quickly, heart beating fast in his chest. “Yeah.”

Dave smiled down at him and pulled his finger out, leaving Kurt feeling strangely empty. It was quickly replaced with something bigger, however, and Kurt lifted his head up, straining to look down at Dave’s fingers inside of him.

“You’re doing good,” Dave said, reaching out to grab Kurt’s hand, stroking his knuckles. “Just relax…”

Kurt let his head fall back onto the bed, pulse definitely going all out now. “Yes…” The fingers moved inside of him and he moaned as his cock rose from the intimate touch.

Dave let go of Kurt’s hand to wrap it around Kurt’s dick, gently massaging the base. “Okay,” he whispered, looking nervous as hell, “now… now I’m going to… to…” He swallowed hard and Kurt gave him an encouraging smile. 

“Please, Dave. I want to feel you.”

Dave nodded, short quick nods, over and over again, as he slipped his fingers out of Kurt, hand releasing the boy’s cock. Kurt watched, breathing shallowly, as Dave began to rub his now fully hard cock with lube, a lot of lube. More lube than Kurt had ever used.

“Going all the way there, lover?” Kurt said in a teasing voice, and Dave blushed a little.

“You can never have too much lube.” His voice was gruff.

Dave reached out, putting his hands underneath Kurt’s thighs. “Okay, baby,” he said, “I’m gonna lift up your legs, okay?” He leaned over Kurt, settling himself between his legs and lifted Kurt’s leg, bending over so that he could rest them gently on his shoulders.

Kurt gasped, feeling strangely vulnerable. Dave then reached out and tugged Kurt’s hips forward suddenly, and Kurt gave a nervous little laugh. Dave grinned at him, but his eyes were serious.

“Okay, Fancy,” he said, “are you ready?”

“Yes,” Kurt said, suddenly desperate to feel Dave inside him. “Yes, please…”

Dave nodded then dropped his eyes as he began to guide his dick between Kurt’s cheeks.

Kurt bit his lip as he felt the head of Dave’s cock press into him. He must have made a face, because Dave stopped, reaching out and brushing Kurt’s forehead.

“Are you okay?”

“Yes,” Kurt breathed, distracted by the strange sensation of something so large pushing into him. “Go…”

The pressure returned as Dave slipped in a little deeper.

“Does it hurt?” Dave questioned, sounding worried.

“It… it does,” Kurt brow furrowing a little as he tried to figure out a way to describe the sensations he was feeling. “A..a little bit… but… but not in a bad way. Not in a bad way at all. Good… Please, Dave, I want you…”

Dave nodded slowly, a small smile growing on his face. “Yeah, it can be… nice. Very… nice…” He blinked rapidly, breath catching a little, and Kurt realized that it had to be costing him to be so calm, so in control.

“Please, Dave,” he said, reaching out for the boy’s hand. “Please, take me.”

Dave took a deep breath then gave a sharp nod, smile growing wider. “Okay, baby…”

Kurt moaned as Dave pressed deeply into him, and then began to thrust out a slow, easy tempo. Kurt raised his hips in time with Dave’s, nails digging into the boy’s big hands. “Oh, God, Dave,” he moaned, as a warm pleasure washed over him, “yeees…”

Lips covered his, sucking and licking, teeth pressing lightly into his flesh. Dave’s hips began to move faster, and Kurt moaned into the boy’s mouth then made a sound of annoyance when Dave pulled back, lifting his head to try and take back the boy’s mouth. Dave pushed him gently back down, and a moment later he felt a big hand wrap around his cock, thumb running along his leaking tip.

“Yes, Dave, yes,” Kurt moaned, using his legs on Dave’s shoulder to yank him closer, wanting to see that big, sweaty chest. “Pleeease.”

“God, you’re so fuckin’ hot,” Dave muttered as his hips moved madly against Kurt’s ass, a rhythmic slapping of flesh. “Oh God, you’re beautiful. So fuckin’ beautiful…” He let out a loud groan, hand on Kurt’s cock pumping faster.

“Please, please, please,” Kurt chanted, craning his head back as he continued to arch his hips. “Yeees.”

Dave’s short breaths turned into harsh gasps, sweat running down his brow. He was definitely close, and Kurt wasn’t far behind. 

“Gonna come,” Dave moaned. “Kurt, Kurt, Kurt, I’m gonna come…”

“Come in me,” Kurt gasped back. “Come on, baby, I wanna feel you…. Oooooh! I wanna feel you come in meeee.”

Dave hips were pounding now, his strokes short and fast. “Love ya… Love ya, Kurt…”

“Oh God,” Kurt said, nails still digging into Dave’s hand. “I love you too, oh my God, I love you…”

With a shout Dave came, throwing his head back, body arching as shudders of pleasure went through him. His hand tightened on Kurt’s dick, squeezing almost to the point of pain and Kurt let out a frustrated cry. 

“Oh God, oh God, oh God…”

Dave began to pump Kurt’s cock in earnest, grinning a little stupidly down at him. “Come on, baby, come on… Come for me… I love you, baby. Come for me…”

That was enough. Kurt’s hips bucked madly as he shot and Dave’s body sort of collapsed down on him, Kurt’s face buried in his lover’s chest.

Kurt moaned as he let his legs slip off Dave’s shoulders, body going limp. “Oh my God,” he whispered, words a little muffled by Dave’s chest. “So good.”

Dave murmured what Kurt assumed was assent, breath still heavy. After a few moments the boy lifted himself up on his big arms and moved backward, sliding out of Kurt.

Kurt sighed at the feeling, the muscles in his ass twitching and a pleasurable ache spreading within him. Dave rolled to the side, a leg and an arm flung over Kurt’s smaller body. They stared at each other for a long moment, both breathing hard, then Kurt let out a hoarse laugh.

“So… What you say we do that again sometime?”

Dave laughed as well, wiping at his brow at the back of his hand. “That sounds good to me, baby.”

Kurt smiled, reaching out to pull Dave close, pressing their lips together, then drawing back with a smile. “I love you, David,” he whispered, feeling warm with afterglow and pleasure. “I love you so much.”

“I love you, too, Kurt,” he whispered back, eyes looking a little bright. “I love you so much, and I always will.”

Kurt ran his hands through Dave’s hair, caressing the boy’s hair. “You promise?” he asked with a teasing smile.

“You know I do.” Dave laughed, shaking his head in disbelief. “Who’d have getting sent to the pen with a princess in my pocket would do me so much good?”

Kurt laughed as well, lashes fluttering. “Well, I can’t say I’m proud of having used a textbook to bludgeon, but I’ll tell you this, Dave Karofsky, I couldn’t have asked for a better cell mate than you.”

“I really do love ya, Kurt.”

“I really do love you, too.”

 

The End (Again) ;P


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